My timeline this evening stretches vulnerably beneath pale grey skies.The wooded backyard approaching dusk, upon an outdoor residential patio table . A glass plated surface, residing beside the sullen oak. Moist and alive, rural crickets resound reverberation. What swamp flies call their own, a comfortable vegetated greenery. What is seen, still yet unspoken, the silent foliage resumes it's natural token.
Wedding ceremonies unfolded in the neighborhood plaza, indoors now, crimson and furnished, aligned with flickering aromas and sofa cushions. The toxic candles that anoint porcelain surfaces. We are relative yet remote to post-prohibition themes, what words rest silent at a centuries turn, spreads from the hearth of the fire, from ashes to burn.
Her drunken loins speak volumes throughout atrophied mantelpieces. A social gathering presumes itself jubilantly. Midnight toasts to the bride and groom. Fables of fathers and mothers too soon, photographs of sister and brothers, or empty rooms. The west wing in it's desolate solitude, dreading the morning milk, breakfast and citrus. We've grown distressed from the inviolable country. "Nonsense!", replies the incessant recluse, who migrates throughout embedded hillsides.
The truth is, in prior lifestyles we have all seen the crucial reality of things. We've abandoned the passion, and the sordid pain it brings. We have sacrificed pleasure to undesirable necessities. Soiled diapers and daytime mailmen. The feeble canine and the inclusive girl scouts, the Jehovah's witnesses who unbearably rap upon my chamber door at a stale and disgusting hour. The downstairs tenants have heard your intoxicating screams through the creaking floorboards above. The moaning and panging of love, in it's procreational excrement.
I have worn early suits, prior to the sticky nighttime fantasies, of sweat dripping profusely from your breasts. Your a.m. kisses, so alcoholic and slow. Your frail and petite shoulders recoil in aftermath. We lie beside each other and tip the bottle backwards, throwing the empty glass onto the stained maroon carpet. You stand up and trot naked, languidly to the bedroom bathroom, I go downstairs and pull another frosty bottle from the suburban refrigerator, I take a ferocious pull and whip it into the blue forgiving recycling bin.
Grandmother was a product of "The Roaring Twenties", her in her Virginia Wolfe nightie. She would go to market with bird infested hats, they were all stuffed with pigeon feathers. This was the birth and initiation of the reckless, mobster, promiscuous genre. Warren Beatty felt out of place living when he did, the prick.
Friday, March 30, 2012
Thursday, March 29, 2012
"Relapsing Girl"
1) With condescending hair, as real as the forlorn winds of April, curling in toxic vapors around her narrow shoulders. Come to me with verses yet unspoken, of false prophets and pre-paid horoscopes. The cold breeze of uncertainty pulls your perfumed purse to stale and filthy basements. Check your wine and spirits at the door. Residential tales of furnished electrical outlets and paved walkways leading to the backyard platform, your natural beauty escapes you. Smile onto jailbird dormitories, it is there you shall take refuge, in days of solitude and endurance. Your pale knees bruised upward to your drooping thighs. The soiled underwear you've worn on nights prior to. How previous feelings kept you, from feeling what you felt before. The man with the twenty in his hand, and fluctuating boundaries, lures you in with his immaculate belt. An aged white-washed- jean- jacket worn with tiled restroom reptiles, and untold stains of semen.
My mother was right when she told me not to fuck with you. I'll take this last two hundred dollars of mine and soak it in gasoline before it goes down your pantie line. Sadness coats the grim afternoon hallway of unconsciousness. You misplaced your skull among the living room floorboards next to the closet at Eddies house again. On exiting through the uncoiling screen door, onto the vast playing field of an early- afternoon- urban- arena, look both ways before you cross the trafficking intersection, you might get hit by an extravagant limousine, or possibly a bad case of character.
When you were much younger, you watched your alcoholic aunts and uncles talk trash on everyone clocking minimum wage, over Thanksgiving dinner, only this time you've bitten off more than you can chew, and this time it tastes like Elmers glue.
2) UNBEARABLE CONFESSIONS
The group gathered at 2p.m.. assembling a well recommended circle in uncomfortable chairs upon the carpeted unit of the undesirable institution. The workers on the floor each exhibited a name tag, (Optional, after all it is an anonymous program). The underpaid woman in the neutral white smock opened up the meeting with an introduction, when she was finished reading the preamble, she opened up the meeting to the floor. The fatigued and overwhelmed patients lay dead in their upright chairs. It was then that the young lady we were considering earlier, decided she would take initiation upon her trivial recovery. She thought to herself, (all these people we feel so bad for me, because they don't know what I've been through, I've got to tell them, and I've got to tell them now!).
3) Endless and targeted, is the horizon on which you stand. You will never get over your little mind. And your make-up doesn't cover your lying eyes. Walk barefoot through sullen city streets, grace your presence in the primitive bodegas on Kensington and Allegheny. Make your sordid lifestyle a routine, and use your childlike charm to pretend that you never grew up, because through the dismal terrain and alleyways, we've all seen what you're made of.
My mother was right when she told me not to fuck with you. I'll take this last two hundred dollars of mine and soak it in gasoline before it goes down your pantie line. Sadness coats the grim afternoon hallway of unconsciousness. You misplaced your skull among the living room floorboards next to the closet at Eddies house again. On exiting through the uncoiling screen door, onto the vast playing field of an early- afternoon- urban- arena, look both ways before you cross the trafficking intersection, you might get hit by an extravagant limousine, or possibly a bad case of character.
When you were much younger, you watched your alcoholic aunts and uncles talk trash on everyone clocking minimum wage, over Thanksgiving dinner, only this time you've bitten off more than you can chew, and this time it tastes like Elmers glue.
2) UNBEARABLE CONFESSIONS
The group gathered at 2p.m.. assembling a well recommended circle in uncomfortable chairs upon the carpeted unit of the undesirable institution. The workers on the floor each exhibited a name tag, (Optional, after all it is an anonymous program). The underpaid woman in the neutral white smock opened up the meeting with an introduction, when she was finished reading the preamble, she opened up the meeting to the floor. The fatigued and overwhelmed patients lay dead in their upright chairs. It was then that the young lady we were considering earlier, decided she would take initiation upon her trivial recovery. She thought to herself, (all these people we feel so bad for me, because they don't know what I've been through, I've got to tell them, and I've got to tell them now!).
3) Endless and targeted, is the horizon on which you stand. You will never get over your little mind. And your make-up doesn't cover your lying eyes. Walk barefoot through sullen city streets, grace your presence in the primitive bodegas on Kensington and Allegheny. Make your sordid lifestyle a routine, and use your childlike charm to pretend that you never grew up, because through the dismal terrain and alleyways, we've all seen what you're made of.
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
"Acquainted with the night."
Solemn is the quivering gust that disperses out onto bleak narrow highways, night traffic exudes itself amidst a sordid sprinkling of neon lights and bulletins. The billboard generation waits patiently for it's due turn, to indulge in something quite so magnificent, so precious and vulnerable, as the swaying branches of a cool October evening. Street lanes and diminishing boulevards untangle now, before the proximity of keen spectacles. What clothes she assembles herself in, throughout afternoon vestibules, the daytime orchids renew a child's dream, with her long delicate lashes, she strolls through the front grounds of the sparkling perimeter. Her sundress worn but never dirty. The heels of her feet, pale and bruised, to that of a bleeding flower, in it's sultry excrement. Who walks barefoot on the outside terrain, in between patio tables, aligned with glass vases and salad utensils, is one who is acquainted with the immaculate daytime, and all its endeavors.
Now for one who has turned, as god's perennial earth rotates, upon it's bold axis, my countenance yields a bleak and grim understanding. It is to within my boundaries, as a man who has sought through his withered years, beneath August pine trees, aside the embalming waters of eastern shore boards, I've grieved through the hidden murmurs that reside among ivory waves, they glimmer immeasurably, distancing themselves between hypnotic sand formations. With the evening at hand, I have deemed a plan, an hourly reprieve into a desolate wilderness of mud and ice. The solicitous darkness that surrounds the midnight side streets, one cannot escape the unbearable solitude that boils within the heat stricken chambers of impending death. Darkness encloses itself, throughout shallow neighborhoods, the drunken screams of a lost existence. It is not I that the city cries to, though I listen. The sodden courtyard eludes itself to the maiming struggles that one endures.
To be acquainted with colors, to have exchanged vibrant seasons with merchants, and to have placed passion upon an exclusive plateau. To have sung within a drunken choir of men on Easter, I have witnessed an ageless resurrection through tender eyelids, sat upon urban door stoops in forlorn chambers of a pensive township. Before me, I have looked out from furnished windows, admiring malnourished women and children. I have walked these grounds miserably and hungry, and do not hold me more than accountable, for it is true, that fenced in rabid dogs will eat you.
Now for one who has turned, as god's perennial earth rotates, upon it's bold axis, my countenance yields a bleak and grim understanding. It is to within my boundaries, as a man who has sought through his withered years, beneath August pine trees, aside the embalming waters of eastern shore boards, I've grieved through the hidden murmurs that reside among ivory waves, they glimmer immeasurably, distancing themselves between hypnotic sand formations. With the evening at hand, I have deemed a plan, an hourly reprieve into a desolate wilderness of mud and ice. The solicitous darkness that surrounds the midnight side streets, one cannot escape the unbearable solitude that boils within the heat stricken chambers of impending death. Darkness encloses itself, throughout shallow neighborhoods, the drunken screams of a lost existence. It is not I that the city cries to, though I listen. The sodden courtyard eludes itself to the maiming struggles that one endures.
To be acquainted with colors, to have exchanged vibrant seasons with merchants, and to have placed passion upon an exclusive plateau. To have sung within a drunken choir of men on Easter, I have witnessed an ageless resurrection through tender eyelids, sat upon urban door stoops in forlorn chambers of a pensive township. Before me, I have looked out from furnished windows, admiring malnourished women and children. I have walked these grounds miserably and hungry, and do not hold me more than accountable, for it is true, that fenced in rabid dogs will eat you.
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
Kensington Gardens
The moist tranquil city, in it's reoccurring awe of luminous enclosures, spreads out onto an urban arena of damp wooded greenery, a torn mist of captivating landscapes, and barbarous architecture. Strolling through the foregrounds one early spring day, before the pigeons grove, an erect marble edifice towering skyward, against the shimmering noon, then in the anticipating folly of cycling pedestrians, embedded elm trees surface the soiled grass.
A muddy passage above a riverside bank, then browning foliage scattering throughout the dank hillside. Winter remains buried by the passing Autumn. Sparrows take to the southern skies and fly out northward, onto a distant peninsula. Off in the remote heavens, a passing train runs it's course, below the concrete infrastructure. A bum and an empty bottle take a temporary reprieve, aside the abandoned footbridge. . In the mid afternoon, your spring time love has peaked much too soon. In the delightful pretense of desirable imagery, one must recall the violent flames recoiling in a broadened fall. Through all the cold hardships and finances grown short, to this passion ideal, I must retort,. it is I that have grieved the unbearable pain, of a thousand lost souls, that naively stormed the bloody beaches of Normandy.
My Tuesday routine of toast and tea at the corner delicatessen, I sit patiently looking over the paper in a corner booth. The owner, a miserable self employed foreigner, asks If I would care for a top on my black coffee. I would. I stare mouldy out the long curtained window. When the day reaches it's intolerable climax, I take to my sordid chamber, that lies upon a dark residential intersection on the outskirts of town. On arriving home, I grimly mount the firm marble staircase, up to my third story vessel. From my conspicuous trench coat, I pull a torn paper bag surrounding a translucent bottle of spirits . I climb up to the building's frail rooftop (weather providing), and sit drinking, passing through the sultry hours of dusk, then onto the pale moments of morning.
I recklessly hurl my cellphone at a tree every night, (if the weather is right, and it usually is),. simply due to the fact that my reality is diminishing rapidly beyond the fluctuated seasons. I've invested on "insurance", for my phone solely for this purpose. Perhaps I've grown mad in my elderly years, or maybe I'll blame the evanescent moon, in the midst of it's voluptuous cycle.
A muddy passage above a riverside bank, then browning foliage scattering throughout the dank hillside. Winter remains buried by the passing Autumn. Sparrows take to the southern skies and fly out northward, onto a distant peninsula. Off in the remote heavens, a passing train runs it's course, below the concrete infrastructure. A bum and an empty bottle take a temporary reprieve, aside the abandoned footbridge. . In the mid afternoon, your spring time love has peaked much too soon. In the delightful pretense of desirable imagery, one must recall the violent flames recoiling in a broadened fall. Through all the cold hardships and finances grown short, to this passion ideal, I must retort,. it is I that have grieved the unbearable pain, of a thousand lost souls, that naively stormed the bloody beaches of Normandy.
My Tuesday routine of toast and tea at the corner delicatessen, I sit patiently looking over the paper in a corner booth. The owner, a miserable self employed foreigner, asks If I would care for a top on my black coffee. I would. I stare mouldy out the long curtained window. When the day reaches it's intolerable climax, I take to my sordid chamber, that lies upon a dark residential intersection on the outskirts of town. On arriving home, I grimly mount the firm marble staircase, up to my third story vessel. From my conspicuous trench coat, I pull a torn paper bag surrounding a translucent bottle of spirits . I climb up to the building's frail rooftop (weather providing), and sit drinking, passing through the sultry hours of dusk, then onto the pale moments of morning.
I recklessly hurl my cellphone at a tree every night, (if the weather is right, and it usually is),. simply due to the fact that my reality is diminishing rapidly beyond the fluctuated seasons. I've invested on "insurance", for my phone solely for this purpose. Perhaps I've grown mad in my elderly years, or maybe I'll blame the evanescent moon, in the midst of it's voluptuous cycle.
Monday, March 26, 2012
"Norman Rockwell, in all his appraising glory".
In the coolness of yielding vegetation, I take to the sordid meadow. Where lilies flourish innumerably. An inevitable sky, a hollow blue. The wooded trees and flesh anew. Breeding vastly, imbedded in the deep horizon. Sprinkling mayflies, the pale and remote sun rises, then descends upon my weary eyelids. The browning boughs of grazing holly, the oak upon the soiled landscape. An open field that stretches, then left unraveling, onto a flattened plateau..
A braided picnic basket, upon a wounded genre. What era does one perceive here? In black and white television screened intervals. Norman Rockwell in all his appraising glory, does fill the amber walkways with fallen snow. Then the nightlights of old incandescent theater entrances. The fluorescent streetlamps that align the downtown street. A Friday night with it's meticulous threads and laces, and high heeled shoes, it are these that I shall efface,. from my deluded consciousness, the pattering in reclusive midnight taverns. My soul left diminishing into the stale hours of morning. The unrewarding toasts of bubbly, beside a residential fireplace, below the atrophied mantlepiece. The intoxicating hearth, spreads aromatic breezes that trickle down the carpeted hallway. Her milky breasts heave, above the lining of her early twentieth century garment. The afternoon garden was voluptuous, beside the outside table, we exchanged glances. Below the violet awnings, and over cakes and tea. You said to me, "What do we do, now that the day is nearly over?", it was at this moment, my universe flickered, as I wiped my dampened brow and began sweating profusely. My suicidal instinct did reach it's uncanny and frivolous peak.
Our moments have always subsided, in leisure I rest now upon the living room recliner, (glass in hand),. playing over the trivial events that transpired between us. The evening moon shall take to it's sultry chamber, amidst desirable star formations, that you call constellations.
A braided picnic basket, upon a wounded genre. What era does one perceive here? In black and white television screened intervals. Norman Rockwell in all his appraising glory, does fill the amber walkways with fallen snow. Then the nightlights of old incandescent theater entrances. The fluorescent streetlamps that align the downtown street. A Friday night with it's meticulous threads and laces, and high heeled shoes, it are these that I shall efface,. from my deluded consciousness, the pattering in reclusive midnight taverns. My soul left diminishing into the stale hours of morning. The unrewarding toasts of bubbly, beside a residential fireplace, below the atrophied mantlepiece. The intoxicating hearth, spreads aromatic breezes that trickle down the carpeted hallway. Her milky breasts heave, above the lining of her early twentieth century garment. The afternoon garden was voluptuous, beside the outside table, we exchanged glances. Below the violet awnings, and over cakes and tea. You said to me, "What do we do, now that the day is nearly over?", it was at this moment, my universe flickered, as I wiped my dampened brow and began sweating profusely. My suicidal instinct did reach it's uncanny and frivolous peak.
Our moments have always subsided, in leisure I rest now upon the living room recliner, (glass in hand),. playing over the trivial events that transpired between us. The evening moon shall take to it's sultry chamber, amidst desirable star formations, that you call constellations.
Saturday, March 24, 2012
Pain Of the City (Vol. 2)
One can walk up and down the fragmented pavement.
Where shadows fall into diminishing clusters upon narrow city sidewalks.
Grey intervals of urban leisure, wrapped throughout the unraveled carpeted pathways, then onto the curbed intersection. Sundown marks the luminous glass houses that reside below towering skyscrapers. Frequenting underground subway channels and rotating escalators. The thug like hieroglyphics that formulate felonies on the tiled wallpapered ceilings of trolley transits. One feels the infested population on the verge of something breeding, something insidious with clenching mutilating fangs, gnawing at false prophets and self conceded politicians, only out for their own means and self proclamations. Defiance is a key tool to the adolescent natives, who conjure up all the sordid trivial ways to die.
The Monday Graveyard, adjacent to the public neighborhood high school. Dreams gone up in thick black smoke, then leaking out onto basement sewer drains. The cellar and the boiler room. Old cardboard that lives in the dark corners of abandonment. The screen door left open with a wide gaping hole, that looks out onto the deserted streets, left vacant, save a frustrated motorist or two, just passing through, splashing puddles to the side of the road, soaking mean pedestrians. Gasoline rainbows and smog- ridden factory buildings.
In Winter we are frost- bitten.
In the Spring we are impatient
In Autumn we are dreadful.
In the Summer we need a vacation.
The cemetery courtyard overlooks the lucrative phosphorescent freeway, in a moist prevalent night of the spring. Where insects mate amidst the heat of the season. Feel the blood circulate throughout the humid luxury of amphetamine delusion. See the air as it permeates throughout remote chambers of the vast atmosphere, ascending then descending, as if it had no place else to go.
Where shadows fall into diminishing clusters upon narrow city sidewalks.
Grey intervals of urban leisure, wrapped throughout the unraveled carpeted pathways, then onto the curbed intersection. Sundown marks the luminous glass houses that reside below towering skyscrapers. Frequenting underground subway channels and rotating escalators. The thug like hieroglyphics that formulate felonies on the tiled wallpapered ceilings of trolley transits. One feels the infested population on the verge of something breeding, something insidious with clenching mutilating fangs, gnawing at false prophets and self conceded politicians, only out for their own means and self proclamations. Defiance is a key tool to the adolescent natives, who conjure up all the sordid trivial ways to die.
The Monday Graveyard, adjacent to the public neighborhood high school. Dreams gone up in thick black smoke, then leaking out onto basement sewer drains. The cellar and the boiler room. Old cardboard that lives in the dark corners of abandonment. The screen door left open with a wide gaping hole, that looks out onto the deserted streets, left vacant, save a frustrated motorist or two, just passing through, splashing puddles to the side of the road, soaking mean pedestrians. Gasoline rainbows and smog- ridden factory buildings.
In Winter we are frost- bitten.
In the Spring we are impatient
In Autumn we are dreadful.
In the Summer we need a vacation.
The cemetery courtyard overlooks the lucrative phosphorescent freeway, in a moist prevalent night of the spring. Where insects mate amidst the heat of the season. Feel the blood circulate throughout the humid luxury of amphetamine delusion. See the air as it permeates throughout remote chambers of the vast atmosphere, ascending then descending, as if it had no place else to go.
Friday, March 23, 2012
Seasonal Boundaries
A worthy accomplishment, for one who settles, in the luxurious Summer afternoon time arena. Moist droplets of sweat dribble down her cool and collected shoulders, gently resting upon the brim of her violet skirt. Down hillside pastures, through seasonal fields of picking, where daisies once grew and flourished. A night under the blanketed horizon, A multitudinous sky hangs above, sultry as the dry wind that cools the thriving branches of preferred solitude. Hyacinths have spawned in the evening- silhouetted- basement- valley, cavernous with twig bark and dead elm. Our paths have crossed in the late dooryards of Autumn, as well as the city alleyways that linger between our lost desires.
Long braided hand baskets of Easter and resurrection, the soft frail bunny in the gold- picketed forum, The wood fences of previous engagements, and failed promises. One has cursed the jeweled breezes, drifting off the soft outskirts, and into our midnight endeavors. The bottles of old, and fresh, brisk, hand-me- downs garments, that reveal a quaint, faint, and delicate legacy.
I have seen the silent eyes that told me so. I have labored through long tedious hours, amidst the pale furnished boundaries of my well- decorated study. I have awakened to cruel, vicious mornings pleading beseechingly, for the long- awaited- inevitable- departure, that we are all subject to. I shall drink my coffee black, and commence small talk with the local drunks who reside on deserted park benches. I will find a dog ( for they are friend to men) that suits my vulnerable sordid needs. I will read myriad volumes of the Encyclopedia Britannica to keep me well- rounded in primitive measures.How elementary the reaping sounds of the neighborhood mowers, as they graze the monotonous surface. In the days of the weeping widow, I take to frolicking upon abandoned plains. I will eat my meat rare with no Worcester sauce,( I shall make many necessary sacrifices of the significant variety). My resolution is to trudge through these current laborious days of tiresome desolation, with no resolution, no solution to the ancient unanswered question of egg- yokes and horseshoes.
Take me oh lovely middle aged Matilda,( with your long hair of crimson so becoming) out to your farmhouse right off the bleeding interstate of Indiana, and into your motherly arms, I need to be nursed, like a fatigued adolescent mountain lion, misplaced within a bullying cannibalistic herd of mountain goats.
Long braided hand baskets of Easter and resurrection, the soft frail bunny in the gold- picketed forum, The wood fences of previous engagements, and failed promises. One has cursed the jeweled breezes, drifting off the soft outskirts, and into our midnight endeavors. The bottles of old, and fresh, brisk, hand-me- downs garments, that reveal a quaint, faint, and delicate legacy.
I have seen the silent eyes that told me so. I have labored through long tedious hours, amidst the pale furnished boundaries of my well- decorated study. I have awakened to cruel, vicious mornings pleading beseechingly, for the long- awaited- inevitable- departure, that we are all subject to. I shall drink my coffee black, and commence small talk with the local drunks who reside on deserted park benches. I will find a dog ( for they are friend to men) that suits my vulnerable sordid needs. I will read myriad volumes of the Encyclopedia Britannica to keep me well- rounded in primitive measures.How elementary the reaping sounds of the neighborhood mowers, as they graze the monotonous surface. In the days of the weeping widow, I take to frolicking upon abandoned plains. I will eat my meat rare with no Worcester sauce,( I shall make many necessary sacrifices of the significant variety). My resolution is to trudge through these current laborious days of tiresome desolation, with no resolution, no solution to the ancient unanswered question of egg- yokes and horseshoes.
Take me oh lovely middle aged Matilda,( with your long hair of crimson so becoming) out to your farmhouse right off the bleeding interstate of Indiana, and into your motherly arms, I need to be nursed, like a fatigued adolescent mountain lion, misplaced within a bullying cannibalistic herd of mountain goats.
Thursday, March 22, 2012
Radio Towers ( a love poem)
The sky is in focus now., (a brilliant blue) as I lay upon the dry grass that carpets an open field, resting between two radio towers, on the sleeping city outskirts, of this quiet rural community. My dreams of you a steady hiss, parallel to the exchanged signals of sound waves, they ride themselves into the deep abyss.
The late afternoon exudes electronic currents through my beating chest, pumping blood, enduring the labor of my beating heart, and thoughts of you into the clear unstoppable evening.
The late afternoon exudes electronic currents through my beating chest, pumping blood, enduring the labor of my beating heart, and thoughts of you into the clear unstoppable evening.
The Late District or/ Modern Standards
1) In the late district, we yield our stale heads to myriad land-sweeping surface amphibians. Our tongues curl repulsively beyond the border. Our netted garments speak volumes of immoral phrases and verses. Cursive Victorians sway mildly below floorboards of swamp infested dormitories, resting subtly.., then perpendicular, to narrow heat- stroking equators.
Reptilian at best, however now deceased. She looks toward her vulnerable toes, now wrapped in a shawl, her shoulders are narrow and mean, then onto the blue horizon. Her thighs penetrate the prince's mind, somewhere in the fortitude of his lengthy endeavors. A lustful descendant of a promiscuous monarchy. He captures a mouth- watering computer framed interval. A currency of wine and hyacinths.He strolls the common grounds, then exits through the garden gate. Oh the young prince, the naive prince, with a cruel and masturbating demeanor, he then gently places his index finger up through the hole of his anus
The princess wears violet in the morning on Sundays. Over the courtyard breakfast table, the early exchanging of toasts and tea. Father and Mother, domesticated pets and fish-net stockings. A game of footsies being played by the prince and his half-sister Margaret. The family bathes together in the neighboring fountain, A tropical sibling delight. A quite enjoyable daytime fantasy that favors the prince, with his queer standards of normalcy.
2) Up through the great northern Appalachians, the silky highway unravels, beyond the vast perimeter of silence and vision. Motoring on cruise control, a drunken tourist screams through the top of her lungs "Oh Fuck Me, Fuck Me Amadeus".
3) Her clothes lay moist on a freshly sheeted mattress. The couple had just returned home from the beach. A weekend on the island. She hated the way that suntan lotion made her whole suitcase smell.
Her husband walks out of their bedroom bathroom wearing nothing but his socks. "Put some clothes on will ya?, ", she snarls, "I had enough for the rest of my life, I guess you haven't"
Reptilian at best, however now deceased. She looks toward her vulnerable toes, now wrapped in a shawl, her shoulders are narrow and mean, then onto the blue horizon. Her thighs penetrate the prince's mind, somewhere in the fortitude of his lengthy endeavors. A lustful descendant of a promiscuous monarchy. He captures a mouth- watering computer framed interval. A currency of wine and hyacinths.He strolls the common grounds, then exits through the garden gate. Oh the young prince, the naive prince, with a cruel and masturbating demeanor, he then gently places his index finger up through the hole of his anus
The princess wears violet in the morning on Sundays. Over the courtyard breakfast table, the early exchanging of toasts and tea. Father and Mother, domesticated pets and fish-net stockings. A game of footsies being played by the prince and his half-sister Margaret. The family bathes together in the neighboring fountain, A tropical sibling delight. A quite enjoyable daytime fantasy that favors the prince, with his queer standards of normalcy.
2) Up through the great northern Appalachians, the silky highway unravels, beyond the vast perimeter of silence and vision. Motoring on cruise control, a drunken tourist screams through the top of her lungs "Oh Fuck Me, Fuck Me Amadeus".
3) Her clothes lay moist on a freshly sheeted mattress. The couple had just returned home from the beach. A weekend on the island. She hated the way that suntan lotion made her whole suitcase smell.
Her husband walks out of their bedroom bathroom wearing nothing but his socks. "Put some clothes on will ya?, ", she snarls, "I had enough for the rest of my life, I guess you haven't"
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
I never said goodbye.
I said hello when familiar winds blew throughout the christening of the seasons. Heat simmered from the kindled leafs of Autumn, onto the morbid silence of Winter. Death surrounded the tropics, adjacent to the residing themes of the frigid hillside, where years were measured in thawed- out countenances, that subsided from the feminine face of a young woman, which in return spread radiant light to vast depths of the ancient valley, (still blanketed in fallen snow, drifts upon drifts). Her voice echoed melodically, the broken promises of Spring. The drawn out days accumulated weight, that shattered the thin icy layers, struggling to hit bottom, then relieved by a chilly breeze.
I said hello when you told me of your plans to travel Europe. Sparing me the desolate months in isolation. It was there that I waited for you, in restless evenings, beside the radiator, in a dingy vacant room, where shadows projected onto the dark corners of the tenement.
I prevailed for some time, maintaining my profession, exchanging broken smiles for a stranger's laughter, of drunken sprees for a simple joke or two. My fellows would conspire during my absence. The dimly- lit barroom's cluttered tables covered the sticky tiled floor with toxic solution. A temporary escape, from tedious cycles of dulled pain and late afternoons. The anticipation of her return filled the lingering gaps between the abandoned days and reckless nights.
I said hello to the disarray that overshadowed the sun, amidst the enduring labor of endless moons. We gradually chiseled our lifestyle way down into the warm marrow. I'd wait for her among outdoor seating arrangements to get off work.
I said hello to the worn furniture that aligned our dreary apartment, while sordid incandescent rays, permeated through the decaying windows, of our fourth-story livelihood. We grew accustomed to wild nights and stale mornings, that led drastically into the unstoppable evening. We loved not ourselves, but the underlying understanding of broken boundaries, that kept us out in the cold....waiting.
I said hello to the decline of a lifetime, that slipped through the vulnerable cracks of my frail fingers, leaving a pit inside that would grow deeper for some time, so deep I couldn't find the surface, where blood did dwell, pumping the remarkable truth of living, where I only lied, only now, it's time to say goodbye.
I said hello when you told me of your plans to travel Europe. Sparing me the desolate months in isolation. It was there that I waited for you, in restless evenings, beside the radiator, in a dingy vacant room, where shadows projected onto the dark corners of the tenement.
I prevailed for some time, maintaining my profession, exchanging broken smiles for a stranger's laughter, of drunken sprees for a simple joke or two. My fellows would conspire during my absence. The dimly- lit barroom's cluttered tables covered the sticky tiled floor with toxic solution. A temporary escape, from tedious cycles of dulled pain and late afternoons. The anticipation of her return filled the lingering gaps between the abandoned days and reckless nights.
I said hello to the disarray that overshadowed the sun, amidst the enduring labor of endless moons. We gradually chiseled our lifestyle way down into the warm marrow. I'd wait for her among outdoor seating arrangements to get off work.
I said hello to the worn furniture that aligned our dreary apartment, while sordid incandescent rays, permeated through the decaying windows, of our fourth-story livelihood. We grew accustomed to wild nights and stale mornings, that led drastically into the unstoppable evening. We loved not ourselves, but the underlying understanding of broken boundaries, that kept us out in the cold....waiting.
I said hello to the decline of a lifetime, that slipped through the vulnerable cracks of my frail fingers, leaving a pit inside that would grow deeper for some time, so deep I couldn't find the surface, where blood did dwell, pumping the remarkable truth of living, where I only lied, only now, it's time to say goodbye.
Monday, March 19, 2012
A Modern Achievement
1) Afternoon
neighborhoods
sway
restlessly throughout city boundaries.
A boy's morning cereal bowl stationary upon a wooden table in the kitchen.
Transparent sun rays,. warm the cooled coffee that rests on the sill.
Windows in the languid iridescent noon. Reflections off the metal spoon. That dangles from the adjacent room.
Kitchen mom,..with her apron on. Predicted words of premeditated comfortability. The violet eyes that describe a pungent food. Elevates herself up with her mood,. ascending the narrow staircase, and into the loft.
Beyond the carpeted floorboards of the residence,. maroon in silence. Cushions of existence and 2) In the darkened cathedral hour,. I was the adolescent pilgrim boy. On the vast primitive enterprise of illiteracy. How grim my ruthless manner and demeanor was! How repulsive my naive quest for feline delicacy? I shall exhibit garments that exclusively reveal my disposition. Sofa of warped lining. Cease the threadbare of dull timing. Outside the smoky streets coat the walkway with crescent feet. The yellow fog of vulnerable flesh that laces the interior of prefered fabrics. Domesticated and deceased,. the sultry hour is now discreet.
Dear sir diary please do
Reveal my admiring lofty Physique.
Lobster was our desired currency,.. amidst the mystical era of shellfish. As a troublesome child I'd look out onto the misty arbor,. the water had claws. I would imaginably climb up onto the bay with cat hoofs. I go pitter-patter upon the bayou. Dreamlike,.. I gaze out into the trembling water. Confused I was,.. cigar- shaped stencils, I would mold from the cloud formations up above.
3) I am a simple tool of necessary virtue,. in the bewildered hour of Henry the 3rd. I, a reclusive gentleman of royal descent. Take to ordinary doorways that lead out into the dismal courtyard. Queen Annabelle the 7th has so eloquently conspired such a theme of civil disobedience,. that could drive the kingdom up the unbearable wall for the rest of my miserable days.
P.S. Gertrute the inside lining of my latest windbreaker has grown uncomfortable,. please do let Beatrice know before the party.
neighborhoods
sway
restlessly throughout city boundaries.
A boy's morning cereal bowl stationary upon a wooden table in the kitchen.
Transparent sun rays,. warm the cooled coffee that rests on the sill.
Windows in the languid iridescent noon. Reflections off the metal spoon. That dangles from the adjacent room.
Kitchen mom,..with her apron on. Predicted words of premeditated comfortability. The violet eyes that describe a pungent food. Elevates herself up with her mood,. ascending the narrow staircase, and into the loft.
Beyond the carpeted floorboards of the residence,. maroon in silence. Cushions of existence and 2) In the darkened cathedral hour,. I was the adolescent pilgrim boy. On the vast primitive enterprise of illiteracy. How grim my ruthless manner and demeanor was! How repulsive my naive quest for feline delicacy? I shall exhibit garments that exclusively reveal my disposition. Sofa of warped lining. Cease the threadbare of dull timing. Outside the smoky streets coat the walkway with crescent feet. The yellow fog of vulnerable flesh that laces the interior of prefered fabrics. Domesticated and deceased,. the sultry hour is now discreet.
Dear sir diary please do
Reveal my admiring lofty Physique.
Lobster was our desired currency,.. amidst the mystical era of shellfish. As a troublesome child I'd look out onto the misty arbor,. the water had claws. I would imaginably climb up onto the bay with cat hoofs. I go pitter-patter upon the bayou. Dreamlike,.. I gaze out into the trembling water. Confused I was,.. cigar- shaped stencils, I would mold from the cloud formations up above.
3) I am a simple tool of necessary virtue,. in the bewildered hour of Henry the 3rd. I, a reclusive gentleman of royal descent. Take to ordinary doorways that lead out into the dismal courtyard. Queen Annabelle the 7th has so eloquently conspired such a theme of civil disobedience,. that could drive the kingdom up the unbearable wall for the rest of my miserable days.
P.S. Gertrute the inside lining of my latest windbreaker has grown uncomfortable,. please do let Beatrice know before the party.
Friday, March 16, 2012
Nighthawks
It gets desolate in the vacant shopping center parking lot,. amidst the neon skyline. Broken glass bottle shards and deserted traffic signals. An abandoned parkway rests along the dreary retired settlement. The suburban perimeter drifts outward along the excluded intersection. Prior to the afternoon cloudburst. A car engine roars off in the distance,. with treacherous squealing off the curbed sidewalk.
A sunken valley of mud below the granite carpeted asphalt. Lonesome at the midnight diner once again. Weary- eyed in a corner booth. A smoky resolution upon a fresh year of conspicuous calamity. Deluded with cynical skepticism,. and front page mockery. The black ink that exploits the daytime endeavors.The city street is eluded now, dismal and forlorn.
Evening news and cheap souvenirs,. an unmistakeable rendezvous,. with a mistress or two. Does one take sugar with his teatime sweets?,. or black,. as the downtown subway alignment. Interchangeable,. the follies of a warped century that overlooks the populated freeway. Vast skyscrapers and electronic night- terrors. The sheltered homeless that dwell on metropolitan park benches, with torn laced sneakers and narrow horizons. Mr. could you spare a quarter,. a penny for your dreams,. or a nickel for your soul. The morning after nightclubs,. then trashcans overflowing with cigaret butts and sandwich ends. The brown paper bag establishments that reek of imitation cigars and lighter fluid. I say burn the whole place down to the soiled surface.
Shut your eyes now,. primitive children of forgotten lessons,. and do not yield your integrity to the inviting temptations you seek,. towards the tail- end of your imaginary rainbow.
A drunken phone conversation,. fueled with fierce demands and profanity. A roach infested tenement with a filthy bathroom. What image exudes itself from the intoxicating television commercial interval. Outside of the fourth- story livelihood,. there lies a paved unraveling walkway,. that leads to the landlords gray office. . Alley cats stray out of the underground basement facility. The unrewarded journey to the liquor store,. an uncompromising reality,. filled with broken fantasies and gasoline portrayals.
The bedsheets are worn upon the coiled mattress,. as the delicate rain outside languidly softens. The moist rooftop rests in a dreamlike slumber. This is what you love the most,.. it all happens while you are sleeping.
A sunken valley of mud below the granite carpeted asphalt. Lonesome at the midnight diner once again. Weary- eyed in a corner booth. A smoky resolution upon a fresh year of conspicuous calamity. Deluded with cynical skepticism,. and front page mockery. The black ink that exploits the daytime endeavors.The city street is eluded now, dismal and forlorn.
Evening news and cheap souvenirs,. an unmistakeable rendezvous,. with a mistress or two. Does one take sugar with his teatime sweets?,. or black,. as the downtown subway alignment. Interchangeable,. the follies of a warped century that overlooks the populated freeway. Vast skyscrapers and electronic night- terrors. The sheltered homeless that dwell on metropolitan park benches, with torn laced sneakers and narrow horizons. Mr. could you spare a quarter,. a penny for your dreams,. or a nickel for your soul. The morning after nightclubs,. then trashcans overflowing with cigaret butts and sandwich ends. The brown paper bag establishments that reek of imitation cigars and lighter fluid. I say burn the whole place down to the soiled surface.
Shut your eyes now,. primitive children of forgotten lessons,. and do not yield your integrity to the inviting temptations you seek,. towards the tail- end of your imaginary rainbow.
A drunken phone conversation,. fueled with fierce demands and profanity. A roach infested tenement with a filthy bathroom. What image exudes itself from the intoxicating television commercial interval. Outside of the fourth- story livelihood,. there lies a paved unraveling walkway,. that leads to the landlords gray office. . Alley cats stray out of the underground basement facility. The unrewarded journey to the liquor store,. an uncompromising reality,. filled with broken fantasies and gasoline portrayals.
The bedsheets are worn upon the coiled mattress,. as the delicate rain outside languidly softens. The moist rooftop rests in a dreamlike slumber. This is what you love the most,.. it all happens while you are sleeping.
The Gates of Eden Remain Ajar.
Centerfold,..your hands illuminate the moist realm of addictive behavior. Blood boiling in the sensitive hour. Silky flesh of the pale silhouette,... cigarettes and candy canes. The barroom hour intertwined with the full body- cavity- search parade. Investigate the inquisitive circus male. Twiddling his thumbs in disgust. Flames tower the billboard perimeter. Seen from the infested highway. Traffic populates the frequency streams of indigestion. The fluorescent landscape has immasculated the deserted roadways. The midnight masquarades,.. and deep mascara flashing in trivial black-and- white bikini beach intervals. The afternoon photo-shoot upon the Hollywood hill. The camera yields upon her vulnerable beauty and frail frame.
Diet soda commercials and wide pocketed pajamas. A social media congregation. Feel the heat breathing from the electronic wide screen. Morals are overpriced in primitive markets,.yet a vast array of elementary sadness. The dark melancholy shade of suicide,.that fades the opaque mirror with the cocaine and razorblade. The market of exploited teen idols is left wide open for premature ejaculation and sodomy. The sewage that circulates the stale underground faucets is overflowing up through the gold paved city streets. Urban canopies and binoculars. House upon the dismal mountain,.that overlooks the crooked valley,.leaves a wide margin for inevitable human error,
Take your plastic currency and shove it up your botoxed ass you imitation cartoon queen. Here's to looking at flamable fumes upon the gasoline canyons of sunny California. Rubber hoses unravel through your pierced anatomy,. and jerks the chain that passes through your belly- button, up to your lifted nose. Imitation butter of the South Jersey garden variety.
The couple lie in bed through a Summer air conditioned daytime fantasy. Outside,.a building collapses and disperses ruptured concrete upon the granite surface. Clouds of smoke permeate through the faded atmosphere. Meanwhile a young woman cashes a hefty check that funds a corrupt museum of natural growth.
Diet soda commercials and wide pocketed pajamas. A social media congregation. Feel the heat breathing from the electronic wide screen. Morals are overpriced in primitive markets,.yet a vast array of elementary sadness. The dark melancholy shade of suicide,.that fades the opaque mirror with the cocaine and razorblade. The market of exploited teen idols is left wide open for premature ejaculation and sodomy. The sewage that circulates the stale underground faucets is overflowing up through the gold paved city streets. Urban canopies and binoculars. House upon the dismal mountain,.that overlooks the crooked valley,.leaves a wide margin for inevitable human error,
Take your plastic currency and shove it up your botoxed ass you imitation cartoon queen. Here's to looking at flamable fumes upon the gasoline canyons of sunny California. Rubber hoses unravel through your pierced anatomy,. and jerks the chain that passes through your belly- button, up to your lifted nose. Imitation butter of the South Jersey garden variety.
The couple lie in bed through a Summer air conditioned daytime fantasy. Outside,.a building collapses and disperses ruptured concrete upon the granite surface. Clouds of smoke permeate through the faded atmosphere. Meanwhile a young woman cashes a hefty check that funds a corrupt museum of natural growth.
Thursday, March 15, 2012
A Significant Survey.
( In reference to the wicker people ): Candles provide heat amidst the
hearth of abandoned centuries. The mantle above the deserted fireplace proves otherwise.
(In reference to the circus pavilion thermometer): Take what you will oh candid one,.my loins were presented to you in a timely fashion. Flourishing rainbows that coexist with your benefactors. A shoelace string circled at the stump of a cemetery flagpole.
P.S. Mental note,.assemble a paper trail.
(In reference to the stationary vehicle cathedral) : Disaster is influential in the realm of social tragedies. I am simply a civil master of standard primitive forgery. My character traits can be described as elementary as:
1. He does not take no for an answer
2. He can hold his own with the meat slicer.
3. Female cats do experience menopause.
4. All of the above or/ midgets have teeth
One did experience trivial escapades, the hours do unfold. The afternoon camera captures her disheveled bedroom dresser drawer surface. I view an open closet, with my vulnerable hand resting upon the dusted sill of a transparent window,.the screen is torn. now (In reference to the juvenile pajama boy) :
1. I keep to my self,.but confide in squirrels
2. The apartment building laundry room is a teenage psychedelic wasteland.
3. The men in her life are all 5'4 and named Sergio
4. None of the above or/ Spatulas do have names
Upon exiting the narrow staircase landing,. the premature sun is weakened. City streets are desolate upon the feeble hours of circumstance. Pedestrians have faded beyond recognition. Several coffee shops and cornerstores do remain closed. Vigilant of the horizon now,. she takes toxic refuge upon stolen carpets and toxic fumes,. now :
1. Contraceptives are uncomfortable.
2. There are forty- two names in a phone book.
3. Life is unpredictable so I do need a scarf.
4. All of the above or/ statues are made of gelato.
Intricate was the reasoning of the exotic mermaid. The languid ocean level rising to the unpredictable surface. The burning rays do warm the tropical landscape,. and far off in the distance,. a road does plateau,..right on the outskirts of our native village. Her moccasins were for domestic relation purposes. now:
1. Live one eggshell at a time
2. The fruit stand is a conspiracy
. 3. I am not a used car salesman
4. none of the above or/ Don't sing nude in the rain if you want me to know that you exist.
hearth of abandoned centuries. The mantle above the deserted fireplace proves otherwise.
(In reference to the circus pavilion thermometer): Take what you will oh candid one,.my loins were presented to you in a timely fashion. Flourishing rainbows that coexist with your benefactors. A shoelace string circled at the stump of a cemetery flagpole.
P.S. Mental note,.assemble a paper trail.
(In reference to the stationary vehicle cathedral) : Disaster is influential in the realm of social tragedies. I am simply a civil master of standard primitive forgery. My character traits can be described as elementary as:
1. He does not take no for an answer
2. He can hold his own with the meat slicer.
3. Female cats do experience menopause.
4. All of the above or/ midgets have teeth
One did experience trivial escapades, the hours do unfold. The afternoon camera captures her disheveled bedroom dresser drawer surface. I view an open closet, with my vulnerable hand resting upon the dusted sill of a transparent window,.the screen is torn. now (In reference to the juvenile pajama boy) :
1. I keep to my self,.but confide in squirrels
2. The apartment building laundry room is a teenage psychedelic wasteland.
3. The men in her life are all 5'4 and named Sergio
4. None of the above or/ Spatulas do have names
Upon exiting the narrow staircase landing,. the premature sun is weakened. City streets are desolate upon the feeble hours of circumstance. Pedestrians have faded beyond recognition. Several coffee shops and cornerstores do remain closed. Vigilant of the horizon now,. she takes toxic refuge upon stolen carpets and toxic fumes,. now :
1. Contraceptives are uncomfortable.
2. There are forty- two names in a phone book.
3. Life is unpredictable so I do need a scarf.
4. All of the above or/ statues are made of gelato.
Intricate was the reasoning of the exotic mermaid. The languid ocean level rising to the unpredictable surface. The burning rays do warm the tropical landscape,. and far off in the distance,. a road does plateau,..right on the outskirts of our native village. Her moccasins were for domestic relation purposes. now:
1. Live one eggshell at a time
2. The fruit stand is a conspiracy
. 3. I am not a used car salesman
4. none of the above or/ Don't sing nude in the rain if you want me to know that you exist.
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
An Ancient Dialogue
Me (my thoughts as I reminisce of a forgotten evening with my long lost love Sylvia) : " Sing and dance with me oh darling, in the still quaint night,..rain scuttling off the mud layered chimney, stays lingering, then gradually slides down to the lower balcony. We reside upon candlelight this provincial evening. The heat from the imitation fireplace provides a sarcastic ambiance,.which I feel most oblidged to be part of. Love is a melodical privledge that I dare to share with you,.oh dark princess of the deep blue mediterranean"
Sir Arthur Jenkins Sr. (a malicious prince who yearns for the distance between my love Sylvia's pale milky thighs,.these are his thoughts) : "Where viscious gulls do conspire to steal your inner tranquillity,Shoeless,.a woman who did not partake in socks, Slipping barefoot now, down at the ocean's beak. Embrace the bird shaped mailbox,.a recipient of the piecemeal suburban terrain. The languid social security check woman, with the librarian warped spectacles, and the invalid credit card. Mail on Sundays where I'm from,.and you, oh female of exquisite beauty, and wondrous hobbies. Assembling model airplanes in your dead husband's mahogany den,. we do find ourselves domesticated below the Summer attics of exclusive pastimes."
Sir Arthur Jenkins Sr also: " Erotic daughter of passionate disobedience. Parade around town in your confused hoody. And revealing pantyhose. Exhibiting the feline qualities of your well recieved mother's appearance. Lust,..and criminals to desire the feathered routine of your daily endeavors. I (unlike my naive fellows) make it clear my interest in fondling hats that consist of a specific fabric. My will tends to soften with the deep rooted clutch of the velvet sparrow,.that nests on a towering branch upon the epic oak, in the neighbors backyard."
Me: "Sylvia,.oh Sylvia. Do not paint your toenails at dusk,.along with the others. How mischievous the natives have grown! Hark!, of the ancient lantern! Then that must be dried oatmeal stains that soiled my withered trousers! I should have known the troubadors kingdom was at stake,.you of a cunning,..loyal bewilderment! Take heed upon the vacant doorways of Melroy!,.bah! Someone has ran off with my virginity again! "
Sylvia: "Relax oh sordid primitive one of naive trivial despair. "
Me: " Perhaps you're accurate with your premonitions of my Aunt Beatrice's Easter invitations,..she probably does want us to go to her and Fat Joey's condo"
Sylvia: "Sleep oh dangerous restless horse of Fuck not"
THE END
Sir Arthur Jenkins Sr. (a malicious prince who yearns for the distance between my love Sylvia's pale milky thighs,.these are his thoughts) : "Where viscious gulls do conspire to steal your inner tranquillity,Shoeless,.a woman who did not partake in socks, Slipping barefoot now, down at the ocean's beak. Embrace the bird shaped mailbox,.a recipient of the piecemeal suburban terrain. The languid social security check woman, with the librarian warped spectacles, and the invalid credit card. Mail on Sundays where I'm from,.and you, oh female of exquisite beauty, and wondrous hobbies. Assembling model airplanes in your dead husband's mahogany den,. we do find ourselves domesticated below the Summer attics of exclusive pastimes."
Sir Arthur Jenkins Sr also: " Erotic daughter of passionate disobedience. Parade around town in your confused hoody. And revealing pantyhose. Exhibiting the feline qualities of your well recieved mother's appearance. Lust,..and criminals to desire the feathered routine of your daily endeavors. I (unlike my naive fellows) make it clear my interest in fondling hats that consist of a specific fabric. My will tends to soften with the deep rooted clutch of the velvet sparrow,.that nests on a towering branch upon the epic oak, in the neighbors backyard."
Me: "Sylvia,.oh Sylvia. Do not paint your toenails at dusk,.along with the others. How mischievous the natives have grown! Hark!, of the ancient lantern! Then that must be dried oatmeal stains that soiled my withered trousers! I should have known the troubadors kingdom was at stake,.you of a cunning,..loyal bewilderment! Take heed upon the vacant doorways of Melroy!,.bah! Someone has ran off with my virginity again! "
Sylvia: "Relax oh sordid primitive one of naive trivial despair. "
Me: " Perhaps you're accurate with your premonitions of my Aunt Beatrice's Easter invitations,..she probably does want us to go to her and Fat Joey's condo"
Sylvia: "Sleep oh dangerous restless horse of Fuck not"
THE END
I Get Hit By Cars.
I get hit by cars,..strolling out through busy intersections,. pleasurably nodding my head to the oncoming traffic. I take joy in flashing my fluorescent windbreaker around town,. amidst the ever changing traffic lights and angry motorists. Upon arriving home, I walk through the back door entrance of my urban row home,. into the kitchen,.past the cellar door on the right hand side. I have a wide array of past times including Richard Simmons VHS,..Howie Mandel (stand-up),..dressing cornish hens up
in broadway attire,..and of course a bit of vintage Streisand to set the mood. Constructing moon orchids out of pouring melted wax over paper mache,. i'm quite fond of as well.
Bagels and lox,..salmon and rice cakes,.bananas well after the ripened stage,.chain fast food restaurant bathrooms,.these are the delicacies I surround myself with. I also partake in wearing sweat pants to the unemployment office in the pouring rain. I'm an obese female of two hundred and fifty- five pounds. My reputation precedes me to say the least. I sweat profusely on a cool Autumn day,.this however does not exclude me from enjoying a gigante mocha frappuccino with extra whip cream from the Starbucks drive- thru. Indulgence manifests itself in myriad ways,.sometimes as a curious odor permeating from my genuine pores, My aroma is meticulously mine,..this is (if you ask me) immaculate perfection. Every ripple displayed by my obtuse anatomy is beautiful in a godly way.
EBT card,..please guide me the way to the deli man,..deli man make me a dream,.use your wild hands to sculpt an
edible edifice,.create a work of cholesterol and taste sensory..one that consists of bread, meat ,
pickles, lettuce,.mayo and vinegar,...
Surprise me,. assemble an uncanny lunch meat extravaganza . Your hairnet stretched so tight behind the food line,..below the radiant incandescent light fixtures.
I shall take an italian hoagie home with me,..to consume beneath my night blanket at a cumbersome hour. The television on,.tonight I shall view "Leave it to Beaver" reruns,.I heard the station I love is airing a marathon. Passion is a piece of drowning lettuce,.as it slides from my busy dentures,.and onto the electric pillow case that shocks me as I initiate convenient rays of light with "The clapper".
in broadway attire,..and of course a bit of vintage Streisand to set the mood. Constructing moon orchids out of pouring melted wax over paper mache,. i'm quite fond of as well.
Bagels and lox,..salmon and rice cakes,.bananas well after the ripened stage,.chain fast food restaurant bathrooms,.these are the delicacies I surround myself with. I also partake in wearing sweat pants to the unemployment office in the pouring rain. I'm an obese female of two hundred and fifty- five pounds. My reputation precedes me to say the least. I sweat profusely on a cool Autumn day,.this however does not exclude me from enjoying a gigante mocha frappuccino with extra whip cream from the Starbucks drive- thru. Indulgence manifests itself in myriad ways,.sometimes as a curious odor permeating from my genuine pores, My aroma is meticulously mine,..this is (if you ask me) immaculate perfection. Every ripple displayed by my obtuse anatomy is beautiful in a godly way.
EBT card,..please guide me the way to the deli man,..deli man make me a dream,.use your wild hands to sculpt an
edible edifice,.create a work of cholesterol and taste sensory..one that consists of bread, meat ,
pickles, lettuce,.mayo and vinegar,...
Surprise me,. assemble an uncanny lunch meat extravaganza . Your hairnet stretched so tight behind the food line,..below the radiant incandescent light fixtures.
I shall take an italian hoagie home with me,..to consume beneath my night blanket at a cumbersome hour. The television on,.tonight I shall view "Leave it to Beaver" reruns,.I heard the station I love is airing a marathon. Passion is a piece of drowning lettuce,.as it slides from my busy dentures,.and onto the electric pillow case that shocks me as I initiate convenient rays of light with "The clapper".
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
Sequences
1) Idle thoughts tend to linger in stale smoke-filled hallways ,.. then out the front entrace of the vast monumental building,..and yielding upon narrow unraveling sidewalks.... 2) Earlier months found us seldomly visited by the black sparrow,. at the northern door to the deserted woods. Where years ago the flood gates were left open. Resonationg through desolate trees,.a song,.unworthy of primitive measures. I take to the evening,.as a time to sort though forbidden fruits,. recently gathered,.. misplaced treasures of our abandoned anscestors. In the time of isolation,.. I yearn for the long forgotten art of witchcraft and wizadry. I have long conversations with insects,.on the soiled floor of the carpeted valley. I stand knee- deep in the deadly inevitable quicksand that sucks my life dry. Cool,.moist,.and empty. The wallowing mud that cakes my vulnerable limbs. Poison berries that bleed my insides,and torn flesh that exposes my sunken bone marrow. In the month of flies ,my eyelids exhaust in moth-like frequencies.
3) Tender was a brief period in time,..at dusk,.between the rural highways, in the backseat of a neon green '57 chevy convertible. A southern bell,.motoring through the bible belt,.with her Georgia-brown hair thrown back to the cooling breeze. Baby blue tank top resting upon her Summer shoulders, and dark sun-tanned skin. Crimson was the moon with the radio on,..humming softly between her rabid ears,..fever rushing through her boiling veins,..and death speaking through her diagnosed shizophrenia.
4) My daughter was born on a beautiful Tuesday back in the early Springtime of 1976. Her mother and I decided to name her Audrey,.(after the famous actress). We provided for Audrey the best we could. Had her grow up mostly in a predominantly white suburban neighborhood. We even sent her to a private Catholic school in the midst of her adolescence,.residing on the outskirts of our small community. One late sleepy afternoon,..it was close to the last day of elementary school for her,..she was seen walking a different way home than usual,,.( as reported by several witnesses). Her mother and I restlessly waited at home for hours,..after phoning the police there was little we could do.
5) A wide dining room table set ,..above hung an antique diamond chandelier. Long white immaculate walls ,..and wooden picture frames. Capturing irreplacable fantasies,.of a life once lived, and transparent mirrors in furniture cabinets. Years went by,..she walks down the domesticated hallway,. past the vacant bedroom,.and into the aromatic bathroom. Opens a drawer and reaches for her .38 revolver.
3) Tender was a brief period in time,..at dusk,.between the rural highways, in the backseat of a neon green '57 chevy convertible. A southern bell,.motoring through the bible belt,.with her Georgia-brown hair thrown back to the cooling breeze. Baby blue tank top resting upon her Summer shoulders, and dark sun-tanned skin. Crimson was the moon with the radio on,..humming softly between her rabid ears,..fever rushing through her boiling veins,..and death speaking through her diagnosed shizophrenia.
4) My daughter was born on a beautiful Tuesday back in the early Springtime of 1976. Her mother and I decided to name her Audrey,.(after the famous actress). We provided for Audrey the best we could. Had her grow up mostly in a predominantly white suburban neighborhood. We even sent her to a private Catholic school in the midst of her adolescence,.residing on the outskirts of our small community. One late sleepy afternoon,..it was close to the last day of elementary school for her,..she was seen walking a different way home than usual,,.( as reported by several witnesses). Her mother and I restlessly waited at home for hours,..after phoning the police there was little we could do.
5) A wide dining room table set ,..above hung an antique diamond chandelier. Long white immaculate walls ,..and wooden picture frames. Capturing irreplacable fantasies,.of a life once lived, and transparent mirrors in furniture cabinets. Years went by,..she walks down the domesticated hallway,. past the vacant bedroom,.and into the aromatic bathroom. Opens a drawer and reaches for her .38 revolver.
Monday, March 12, 2012
The Days of Wine and Proses
Awakening in the sultry morning hours,..lover,.when did you return home from work last night? I must of been tired. How moist and sticky our Summertime bedroom has become. On arising,..in the afternoon on Saturday,.hungover. Your lipstick pressed against the hallway mirror of our one- bedroom apartment. Down to the ground level of our building,.. where moisture drips from the velvet awnings. Midnight margaritas have dried the salt to your sleepy eyes,..awoken from a dream of the great Northern Pacific,. where breakers sway heavily in the deep vast perimeter,..parallel to the unfathomable endless horizon,..blue sky fades to gray,..percolating the distance between your blanketed thighs. A window air-conditioning unit provides background audio between the spaces of your delicate breathing. In the early stages we still struggled.
Out here,.. on our urban peninsula,. we coat our lives in cheap thrills and fast stomach pain,. our limbs ache unnecessarily,.. as we bang our heads on white porcelain toilets. We lock ourselves in the bathroom at a moments haste,..without any understanding as to why we do the things we do,..say the things we say,..or feel the way we feel. Our lifestyle comes to an abrupt climax every night,..along with the wailing and moaning, crying and screaming. A piercing shrill ,. from the hormonal mouth of desire. We can't live without each other,..yet we long to die so badly. "Please god just kill me," I would mumble foxhole prayers to myself during a period of desolation,.. The neighborhood bars and establishments knew us much too well,..we'd be thrown out the doorway, straight back into hell.
Love was a plead to an unforgiving black hole,..a god of nobody's understanding. Conditional love spawned loopholes in the expanded short term refuge of self indulgence. The cocaine and jitters pushed me over the edge of pornographic bedspreads,..shield your eyes oh beautiful one,..I got a terrible case of bad character,..and the only remedy was more, more, more. Then the afterlife of resolution, serenity, and boredom. Without you there.
Out here,.. on our urban peninsula,. we coat our lives in cheap thrills and fast stomach pain,. our limbs ache unnecessarily,.. as we bang our heads on white porcelain toilets. We lock ourselves in the bathroom at a moments haste,..without any understanding as to why we do the things we do,..say the things we say,..or feel the way we feel. Our lifestyle comes to an abrupt climax every night,..along with the wailing and moaning, crying and screaming. A piercing shrill ,. from the hormonal mouth of desire. We can't live without each other,..yet we long to die so badly. "Please god just kill me," I would mumble foxhole prayers to myself during a period of desolation,.. The neighborhood bars and establishments knew us much too well,..we'd be thrown out the doorway, straight back into hell.
Love was a plead to an unforgiving black hole,..a god of nobody's understanding. Conditional love spawned loopholes in the expanded short term refuge of self indulgence. The cocaine and jitters pushed me over the edge of pornographic bedspreads,..shield your eyes oh beautiful one,..I got a terrible case of bad character,..and the only remedy was more, more, more. Then the afterlife of resolution, serenity, and boredom. Without you there.
A Section 8 Daydream.
Cherry- flavored lives were at stake,.. with adolescent mouths clamped shut,.. and teeth filled with rotting cavities,.down on the gritty sidewalk. A pigeon scuttles upward now,.. between the neighboring telephone poles,.. above the local cornerstore. Where torn children shoes perish,.. dangling from laces upon steel wire, A northern tenement block. Populated by feeble residents who live on provided cultural currency,..broken shards of glass found along side of the curbed intersection,..unwanted souvenirs and pastimes,..sordidly distributed by the reckless multitude,.born into poverty,.yet surrendering to the dying environmental realities everyday.
The southern city projects,.. filled with abandoned warehouses and vacant factory high-rises. Where professions and businesses once flourished,..then abruptly died out,..with the circling seasons. August came to a harsh climax,..where Summer's lust seemed so refreshing, innocent, and pure,..then. combusts! ,with the ignition of Autumn's toxic love affair,..and September's wicked premonitions,..of smoke rising from piles of burning leaves,. beyond the stale atmosphere,..and into the dried heavens.
The southern city projects,.. filled with abandoned warehouses and vacant factory high-rises. Where professions and businesses once flourished,..then abruptly died out,..with the circling seasons. August came to a harsh climax,..where Summer's lust seemed so refreshing, innocent, and pure,..then. combusts! ,with the ignition of Autumn's toxic love affair,..and September's wicked premonitions,..of smoke rising from piles of burning leaves,. beyond the stale atmosphere,..and into the dried heavens.
Saturday, March 10, 2012
"A life Investment In a singles evening"
Girl in her early twenties,.beware of the formidable glitter of wind resistant material, as you lace youself up in it. Delicate mascara shades her vulnerable eyelids. Unaware of the capabilities of raw disease concerning the flesh. Gathering objects in your expensive handbag,..Your grace and demeanor,..strolling down Park Ave. The harsh crude wind still disperses through rural greenery,..then continuing outward,..stretches beyond the city limits. Now pausing at a sidewalk intersection,..check your cellphone to see if you've missed anything.
The goals she achieved going into her junior year of college,..were attainable,.so naturally,..they were achieved. The weekend parties,..and of course,.. the boy down the hallway from her second story apartment. Every night before recreation initiated,..she would say to herself,."Not tonight,..I can't do that again tonight",..Yet every dreadful and inevitable evening she'd forfeit her prior ideals to the ultimate unraveling reality,..of miserable truth.
The morning cofee table,.blanketed with cigaret ash,..and false beliefs. The supposive intimate conversations,.. held with trivial strangers,...she managed to befriend,..then discard,.. into the adjacent living room wastebasket. One day it was all unbearable. The unpaid bills and neglected hygiene caught up with her, along with last night's escapades,..but what really did happed?,.. her friends desired to know,..or so they pleaded,..then exited. Trying to recall what transpired the night before was indeed impossible. She just knew,.. whatever did happen,..she wouldn't recover,..or ever be the same again,...emotionally.
Many years ago there was a playground near the old school she attended,..that she would often frequent with her mother. Every Sunday after Catholic mass they would rest there,..on the wooden painted merry- go- round. Her mother would ask her "Would you like me to push you ?" She always said "No".
The goals she achieved going into her junior year of college,..were attainable,.so naturally,..they were achieved. The weekend parties,..and of course,.. the boy down the hallway from her second story apartment. Every night before recreation initiated,..she would say to herself,."Not tonight,..I can't do that again tonight",..Yet every dreadful and inevitable evening she'd forfeit her prior ideals to the ultimate unraveling reality,..of miserable truth.
The morning cofee table,.blanketed with cigaret ash,..and false beliefs. The supposive intimate conversations,.. held with trivial strangers,...she managed to befriend,..then discard,.. into the adjacent living room wastebasket. One day it was all unbearable. The unpaid bills and neglected hygiene caught up with her, along with last night's escapades,..but what really did happed?,.. her friends desired to know,..or so they pleaded,..then exited. Trying to recall what transpired the night before was indeed impossible. She just knew,.. whatever did happen,..she wouldn't recover,..or ever be the same again,...emotionally.
Many years ago there was a playground near the old school she attended,..that she would often frequent with her mother. Every Sunday after Catholic mass they would rest there,..on the wooden painted merry- go- round. Her mother would ask her "Would you like me to push you ?" She always said "No".
A Coming of Age Piece.......
I have swelled beneath familiar rooftops,.. at the boiling epicenter of childhood. Somewhere along the delusional interstate of disheveled pajamas and footsies. Bedtime tales have glazed my primitive eyeballs,.. at the drooling mouth of intellectual wizardry.
I have witnessed edited pg-13 movies on television,..ones that consisted of melancholy footnotes and timelines. Sadness was not suggested to me earlier on in life,..it however was not excluded from my daily routine. Teachers and guidance counselors were sworn (under oath) to protect me from the subdued experienced street people. The ones who'd walk (head down) through narrow city alleyways in search of passionate thrills,..or cheap lust. I was the puppet-master earlier on in my naive adolescence. I would navigate between stationary trees that decorated my backyard,.. still remaining,.. through unrecognized holidays. I'd take long glances out of the fogged kitchen window,..to captivate a moment in time,..of what went on with the suburban neighbors. On the remote side of our picketed fence. I would send my dog,..(an inquisitive terrier) out on ruthless missions to find out what made the elderly couple tick.
I would take a long deserved reprieve when the weekend arrived. Unnecessary naps on Sunday afternoon carpets,..that unraveled upon the living room floorboards. A screen door would swing shut somewhere off in the distance,..wind would subside,..then after a long interval,..continue on,.. to jump- start the inevitable evening. I was not aware of the crucial significance of the pork-chop man. Making his entrance with the paper bag in hand,..and a roll of aluminum foil in the other.
Now on to the roller skating derby society. We sanded paper constructed from toxic glue. We'd furnish basements to make them seem more "homey". A television livelihood. Carbonated beverage to wash down Sloppy Joe enjoyment. A baking secret. Instant oatmeal with gummy bears thrown into the mix,..to spice it up. Generation X. The video game club was allowed to visit me six times a week. We'd guzzle our bottled price tags,..with commercial knowledge. A dollar was worth six. Give me the remote control car Jimmy,..you little mama's boy,..and maybe I won't wedgie your ass,..in front of prissy Missy. You piece of shit blue-collared subterranean Fuck.
I have witnessed edited pg-13 movies on television,..ones that consisted of melancholy footnotes and timelines. Sadness was not suggested to me earlier on in life,..it however was not excluded from my daily routine. Teachers and guidance counselors were sworn (under oath) to protect me from the subdued experienced street people. The ones who'd walk (head down) through narrow city alleyways in search of passionate thrills,..or cheap lust. I was the puppet-master earlier on in my naive adolescence. I would navigate between stationary trees that decorated my backyard,.. still remaining,.. through unrecognized holidays. I'd take long glances out of the fogged kitchen window,..to captivate a moment in time,..of what went on with the suburban neighbors. On the remote side of our picketed fence. I would send my dog,..(an inquisitive terrier) out on ruthless missions to find out what made the elderly couple tick.
I would take a long deserved reprieve when the weekend arrived. Unnecessary naps on Sunday afternoon carpets,..that unraveled upon the living room floorboards. A screen door would swing shut somewhere off in the distance,..wind would subside,..then after a long interval,..continue on,.. to jump- start the inevitable evening. I was not aware of the crucial significance of the pork-chop man. Making his entrance with the paper bag in hand,..and a roll of aluminum foil in the other.
Now on to the roller skating derby society. We sanded paper constructed from toxic glue. We'd furnish basements to make them seem more "homey". A television livelihood. Carbonated beverage to wash down Sloppy Joe enjoyment. A baking secret. Instant oatmeal with gummy bears thrown into the mix,..to spice it up. Generation X. The video game club was allowed to visit me six times a week. We'd guzzle our bottled price tags,..with commercial knowledge. A dollar was worth six. Give me the remote control car Jimmy,..you little mama's boy,..and maybe I won't wedgie your ass,..in front of prissy Missy. You piece of shit blue-collared subterranean Fuck.
Fiction: Considering the Post Vietnam era.
In the post Vietnam era,...I frequented a pleasant hillside away from society. Beneath the Autumn sky,..and swaying branches,...I would make out disfigured portraits among the random cloud formations. I smoked my Camel straights and drank my whiskey black. Brown hair began to assemble upon my narrow bird chest. The world was a keyhole to a locked steel door that I somehow managed to peep through. Vivid daytime would hold my imagination captive with lucid imagery,.. while the world turned steadily in and out of my perception. It was then that I made a conscious decision to wear my jeans way too tight. Lust was my alias,...in the decade of black and white mediocrity.
I was the commercial billboard superfan,.. with my hair greased back along side the ongoing traffic. A freeway of afternoon fantasies dwindled to and fro between my naive thighs. I thought I was James Dean. In the evening I would climb down the crooked pathways back to the rural household that I resided in during that time. My grandmother's farm ranch. I had an uncanny knack for domesticating wild farm animals. Poultry just so happened to be my specialty. Upon going to bed,.. I would bring a dozen or so roosters with me,.. to my room for the night. Then underneath the covers,...magic would begin to unfurl.
I kept a lengthy poster of Marily Monroe above my bedside mantle. A shrine to the lifestyle I so badly desired. I began combing my hair with a rusty knife. The kids at my high school would mutter comments below their breath,..it was not their fault,. I was cut from a different cloth. I was leather,..and they were simply cotton,..or at best polyesther. I was the French kiss king,..in the realm of bagged lunches. I would parade around the school hallways with mustard stains on my white undershirt. My confidence bursted immeasurably through the boiler room ceiling.
Cafeteria hour,...the show would begin. Eddy, Billy ,..Cheech (the Mexican boy),..and I had three whole scenes of West Side Story down to a meticulous science. We would leave the cheerleaders breathless,..and horny,..leading them to stray away from their athletic boyfriends. I rode a womans bicycle everywhere,..it had the braided basket on front and everything. I quickly befriended the local merchants at the conerstores,..they called me "Johnny Dukes",..I'd walk in doing the Fonzy walk and everthing,..we'd all go haaaay,..you know like the Fonz. Yeah things were good for a little while.
I was the commercial billboard superfan,.. with my hair greased back along side the ongoing traffic. A freeway of afternoon fantasies dwindled to and fro between my naive thighs. I thought I was James Dean. In the evening I would climb down the crooked pathways back to the rural household that I resided in during that time. My grandmother's farm ranch. I had an uncanny knack for domesticating wild farm animals. Poultry just so happened to be my specialty. Upon going to bed,.. I would bring a dozen or so roosters with me,.. to my room for the night. Then underneath the covers,...magic would begin to unfurl.
I kept a lengthy poster of Marily Monroe above my bedside mantle. A shrine to the lifestyle I so badly desired. I began combing my hair with a rusty knife. The kids at my high school would mutter comments below their breath,..it was not their fault,. I was cut from a different cloth. I was leather,..and they were simply cotton,..or at best polyesther. I was the French kiss king,..in the realm of bagged lunches. I would parade around the school hallways with mustard stains on my white undershirt. My confidence bursted immeasurably through the boiler room ceiling.
Cafeteria hour,...the show would begin. Eddy, Billy ,..Cheech (the Mexican boy),..and I had three whole scenes of West Side Story down to a meticulous science. We would leave the cheerleaders breathless,..and horny,..leading them to stray away from their athletic boyfriends. I rode a womans bicycle everywhere,..it had the braided basket on front and everything. I quickly befriended the local merchants at the conerstores,..they called me "Johnny Dukes",..I'd walk in doing the Fonzy walk and everthing,..we'd all go haaaay,..you know like the Fonz. Yeah things were good for a little while.
Friday, March 9, 2012
Fiction,..rehab B-sides...
The separate housing units,..occupied by the lower income bracketed pedestrians,..does little to no justice for the helpless individuals that occupy the dismal projects of the city. In the out- of- town institutions we hear unfathomable tales of grief and molestation by its inhabitants. For entertainment purposes we nod our heads to the unbelievable truths.
When I first noticed her,...layered in grandmother's hand- me -down garments,. she was exiting a local thrift store. Something struck me about her grace and demeanor. I, was just a poor young teenager then ,.... starving with malnutrition and desire. Pink was her favorite color. She wore colored ribbons in her hair. I had no intention of going to school that day,..or finishing it all together. I approached her casually and got her name. "Shanell",..is what she went by. The most beautiful word I ever heard in my whole life up to that point.
Home was no place for a sixteen year old to perish,..so I spent most my time wandering the polluted streets. I made friends,..or shall I say,.."Business acquaintances". It was before no time that I dropped out of high school and began to hustle. I started running the corner of K and Somerset. At first I held no sympathy for the pathetic junkies that I did business with. I didn't care for their grease ball slyness or closet manners. All of them were liars,...this I knew,...because they lied to themselves. My mother was a junky,...while I ,...a feeble adolescent,...developed in poverty,.. She would have a different "Sugar daddy" over our house every night when she was home,...about half the time,
The fist time i was molested happened back in 1986,..I was an older "five" years of age at that time. I lay on my sunken mattress and stare to the darkened entrance leading out of my bedroom door and out into dimly lit hallway. A half an hour prior to this,.. I failed miserably at shooting my mother up with heroin for the first time. Her old man man grabbed me,. threw me into my hut,..then slammed the door,...moments later as I was laying on my back,..on my bed sobbing,..I felt a cool metallic object being pressed to the back of my neck. It was the business end of a .48,...that would tell me to do incomprehensible demoralizing sexual favors.
It was then that I began tricking on the malicious streets of Kensington. I thought it was normal. When coming to,.. I learned it was anything but....
When I first noticed her,...layered in grandmother's hand- me -down garments,. she was exiting a local thrift store. Something struck me about her grace and demeanor. I, was just a poor young teenager then ,.... starving with malnutrition and desire. Pink was her favorite color. She wore colored ribbons in her hair. I had no intention of going to school that day,..or finishing it all together. I approached her casually and got her name. "Shanell",..is what she went by. The most beautiful word I ever heard in my whole life up to that point.
Home was no place for a sixteen year old to perish,..so I spent most my time wandering the polluted streets. I made friends,..or shall I say,.."Business acquaintances". It was before no time that I dropped out of high school and began to hustle. I started running the corner of K and Somerset. At first I held no sympathy for the pathetic junkies that I did business with. I didn't care for their grease ball slyness or closet manners. All of them were liars,...this I knew,...because they lied to themselves. My mother was a junky,...while I ,...a feeble adolescent,...developed in poverty,.. She would have a different "Sugar daddy" over our house every night when she was home,...about half the time,
The fist time i was molested happened back in 1986,..I was an older "five" years of age at that time. I lay on my sunken mattress and stare to the darkened entrance leading out of my bedroom door and out into dimly lit hallway. A half an hour prior to this,.. I failed miserably at shooting my mother up with heroin for the first time. Her old man man grabbed me,. threw me into my hut,..then slammed the door,...moments later as I was laying on my back,..on my bed sobbing,..I felt a cool metallic object being pressed to the back of my neck. It was the business end of a .48,...that would tell me to do incomprehensible demoralizing sexual favors.
It was then that I began tricking on the malicious streets of Kensington. I thought it was normal. When coming to,.. I learned it was anything but....
The Memoirs of Ol' Captain Mayfair (vol 1)
My hands have aged vulnerably,..along with the crescent moon shadows,.. that reflect from the ancient shoreline. At dusk I present my daily sermon to eager school children,... sordidly gathered along the sandy beaches,. they hem from the local village. I,. a veteran of foreign wars,..and feebly a master of civil obedience,. do tend to indulge in the fine citrus that inhabits the local region. I walk a familiar radius,..circling the local neighborhood. The vegetable and fruit stands,..provide the necessary means of commerce. I awake at an ungodly hour,.. every quaint and dismal morning,..before the sunrise initiates. My withered bones weakened,..through trivial decades of exposure. Life has been unforgiving in a concrete and relative manner.
I have forgiven my family for abandoning me years ago. I took refuge with my comrades amidst the drunken days of sailors,. and midnight socials upon the jetty. I have drank with the finest. A harpoon piercing or two. My limbs dangle beyond compromise. My surroundings have told fables of banished criminals and infertility. It is true that love once played a role in my story.
Now,...going back to the early mid twentieth century,...it must of been the Summer of '43 to be exact, well,.. most of you weren't even born yet. I was of my own doing . A reckless trouble maker that frequented the wildest nightspots and watering holes. I was an outgoing son of a bitch,..I do recall,...noticing at the end of the barroom,..the finest female specie I ever laid my sorry eyes on. She was just sitting all by her lonesome,..and I thought,.."by god,..what is a beautiful heavenly creature like that doing all by herself in a place like this"?
By the end of the evening I had her name,..an address,..and a pair of silk panties to show for the events that transpired between us. Her name was Mildred Frances Conrad,..she passed some years back due mainly to allergies,.. and lethal heart palpitations,..but I'll never forget the way she stared at me when I says to her,.."So where to little honey,?...the way I see it,..it's your place or mine,..from that moment on I knew that she was the one for me. We were together forty- seven years.
Well,..all that long lost love and wish wash is neither here nor there now if you ask me. And god sparingly I'll live to see a hundred,..it don't matter all that much if you ask me.
I have forgiven my family for abandoning me years ago. I took refuge with my comrades amidst the drunken days of sailors,. and midnight socials upon the jetty. I have drank with the finest. A harpoon piercing or two. My limbs dangle beyond compromise. My surroundings have told fables of banished criminals and infertility. It is true that love once played a role in my story.
Now,...going back to the early mid twentieth century,...it must of been the Summer of '43 to be exact, well,.. most of you weren't even born yet. I was of my own doing . A reckless trouble maker that frequented the wildest nightspots and watering holes. I was an outgoing son of a bitch,..I do recall,...noticing at the end of the barroom,..the finest female specie I ever laid my sorry eyes on. She was just sitting all by her lonesome,..and I thought,.."by god,..what is a beautiful heavenly creature like that doing all by herself in a place like this"?
By the end of the evening I had her name,..an address,..and a pair of silk panties to show for the events that transpired between us. Her name was Mildred Frances Conrad,..she passed some years back due mainly to allergies,.. and lethal heart palpitations,..but I'll never forget the way she stared at me when I says to her,.."So where to little honey,?...the way I see it,..it's your place or mine,..from that moment on I knew that she was the one for me. We were together forty- seven years.
Well,..all that long lost love and wish wash is neither here nor there now if you ask me. And god sparingly I'll live to see a hundred,..it don't matter all that much if you ask me.
Thursday, March 8, 2012
Teenage Dreams and Jelly Beans...........
Room to domesticate along side of the rural highways,...that stretch beyond the outskirt of the deep Mid- Americas. Fallen tree branches and faded roadsigns assemble an unattractive collage to the lonesome traveler. Miles upon miles of dull agriculture and languid greenery. The Appalachians that cover the upper Eastern seaboard does provide leeway to flat light beer and tedious headaches.
Evening presented itself in a usual manner one late Summer Tuesday afternoon.
Now going back to 1996. A suburban household of upper middle class stature. Parents out of town for the week. Crimson breeding flames from the abandoned fireplace. An audio hallucination. A chemical adolescence. Teenage dreams and jelly beans. Oh honey bear,.. how you danced in my corner vision. The upstairs bedroom then was epic. Time for cynical lust and its hardships.
The Clinton administration feeding from the burning widescreen off the downstairs television. Wash down your fears and anxiety down with malted beverages you got your older siblings to purchase for you.
Now time for the virginity girl,.. who lies and manipulates. With an abusive childhood,..she's out just to fuck with you.
Wait now,..comfort is only a few short feelings away. Don't get lost before the miracle happens,..or just get older... The bourgeois living room furniture assortment has had your number from day one. Cheap talk and sordid calendar intervals. Time to resolve a temporary problem in the decade of abrupt snowfall,..upon a landscape so flat and long,..the natives still wonder what hit them. Through climatic cycles of crucial departures and arrivals. The farewell kiss of tranquility was either a sign from Jesus,..or an invitation from the uptown factory boys during rush hour,..to embrace a long lost hidden era. Urban dreams of toxic fornication upon a jeweled bed of cypress and indigo. Candles and incense,... the Autumn brown scarf you misplaced in the attic.
Evening presented itself in a usual manner one late Summer Tuesday afternoon.
Now going back to 1996. A suburban household of upper middle class stature. Parents out of town for the week. Crimson breeding flames from the abandoned fireplace. An audio hallucination. A chemical adolescence. Teenage dreams and jelly beans. Oh honey bear,.. how you danced in my corner vision. The upstairs bedroom then was epic. Time for cynical lust and its hardships.
The Clinton administration feeding from the burning widescreen off the downstairs television. Wash down your fears and anxiety down with malted beverages you got your older siblings to purchase for you.
Now time for the virginity girl,.. who lies and manipulates. With an abusive childhood,..she's out just to fuck with you.
Wait now,..comfort is only a few short feelings away. Don't get lost before the miracle happens,..or just get older... The bourgeois living room furniture assortment has had your number from day one. Cheap talk and sordid calendar intervals. Time to resolve a temporary problem in the decade of abrupt snowfall,..upon a landscape so flat and long,..the natives still wonder what hit them. Through climatic cycles of crucial departures and arrivals. The farewell kiss of tranquility was either a sign from Jesus,..or an invitation from the uptown factory boys during rush hour,..to embrace a long lost hidden era. Urban dreams of toxic fornication upon a jeweled bed of cypress and indigo. Candles and incense,... the Autumn brown scarf you misplaced in the attic.
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
An afternoon at Sunny Dee's apartment
Reclining in a chair,. her long legs crossed. Riding up her maroon skirt. The living room afternoons at Dee's apartment. Lazy and serene. She takes opiate refuge from the intoxicating night prior to. Velvet curtains allow the sun to perish outside,..along the narrow city streets. The walkway to the landing,..that leads to the staircase. Beside the building mailboxes where unwanted bills and Sunday advertisements pile to the surface.
Smoking a cigarette,..she stares up at the ceiling fan,..revolving,..going nowhere,.. among the chipping paint. A steady breeze blows through her windows,.. left slightly ajar from the night before. Moving her thick nicotine stained drapes to the side,..then back again.
She recalls once an era,...where she thought she was content,..was she? No,...probably not. But so much better than today. She loved to paint with pastels,..the water colors of a time so remote and unfathomable,..it appears to be surreal. The naive simplicity of youth falls victim to the pain of adulthood and the sting of the needle.
I walk in at a quarter to four with a bag of beer that I picked up from the corner delicatessen. I know the process all too well. We greet each other. Our dialogue smoothed out by long windy spaces,..and delicate aching fingertips,..that reached out for a life where,.."I just don't want to feel anything"
Smoking a cigarette,..she stares up at the ceiling fan,..revolving,..going nowhere,.. among the chipping paint. A steady breeze blows through her windows,.. left slightly ajar from the night before. Moving her thick nicotine stained drapes to the side,..then back again.
She recalls once an era,...where she thought she was content,..was she? No,...probably not. But so much better than today. She loved to paint with pastels,..the water colors of a time so remote and unfathomable,..it appears to be surreal. The naive simplicity of youth falls victim to the pain of adulthood and the sting of the needle.
I walk in at a quarter to four with a bag of beer that I picked up from the corner delicatessen. I know the process all too well. We greet each other. Our dialogue smoothed out by long windy spaces,..and delicate aching fingertips,..that reached out for a life where,.."I just don't want to feel anything"
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
Heat
Ive seen her face,..an image parallel to the simmering tropic that melted itself beneath the radiant sun of twilight. A mirage below the sinking skies. Ivory waves of ocean echoed melodically before the swaying heat of desert. Prior to inevitable funeral flower arrangements. What did scrape the boiling sandy surface? The furry drought that brought upon lost fables of time. Summer rested its laurels among the withered branches of Autumn. Mocking her smile,.with its persuasive wind chimes,. that hung from the wooden balcony.
I was the adolescent water boy in my elderly years. Forbidden was desirable pleasure. Curious with anxiety and contempt,.. I cursed below my breath. My mouth revolted with the clamor of naive footsteps,..that dwindled themselves beyond the juvenile schoolyard. Seasons would mold a forlorn cast around my days, as lessons unfolded before my sealed eyelids.
She was what I looked forward to along my daily routine.
In the courtyard right before dusk,..as the desolate neighbors prepared for supper,..a rather dismal hour. The enveloped brick columned tenements. I would stand alone,..gazing upward to her fourth story housing unit window. The food stamp king I was. With the baby formula,..and the gracious diapered words of childhood,..and earned wisdom would pour fluently,...permeating like some repulsive liquid. The sperm of night,... the dying seed within her naked teeth.
I recall once at a sullen hour,...the passion of midnight creeping,..aching between the amphetamine of her vulnerable flesh, pulsating thighs, and breathing deeply she was,.. dripping with sweat,.. human she was and still is. I shall call on her some random evening,.. from the far continental shores of the Pacific. With my chest overflowing with love of centuries for this woman. Pure madness. I hear to this day she is very much alive. Residing in some northern canyon along the Himalayas. Paradise subsided years ago along with a dream,.. of a lonesome grief -stricken man dancing briefly along the rocky cliffs. Prior to the ice and the avalanche of decades.
She would moan from the pangs of Childbirth.
Her legs split,...with the cunning knife of deception....
I was the adolescent water boy in my elderly years. Forbidden was desirable pleasure. Curious with anxiety and contempt,.. I cursed below my breath. My mouth revolted with the clamor of naive footsteps,..that dwindled themselves beyond the juvenile schoolyard. Seasons would mold a forlorn cast around my days, as lessons unfolded before my sealed eyelids.
She was what I looked forward to along my daily routine.
In the courtyard right before dusk,..as the desolate neighbors prepared for supper,..a rather dismal hour. The enveloped brick columned tenements. I would stand alone,..gazing upward to her fourth story housing unit window. The food stamp king I was. With the baby formula,..and the gracious diapered words of childhood,..and earned wisdom would pour fluently,...permeating like some repulsive liquid. The sperm of night,... the dying seed within her naked teeth.
I recall once at a sullen hour,...the passion of midnight creeping,..aching between the amphetamine of her vulnerable flesh, pulsating thighs, and breathing deeply she was,.. dripping with sweat,.. human she was and still is. I shall call on her some random evening,.. from the far continental shores of the Pacific. With my chest overflowing with love of centuries for this woman. Pure madness. I hear to this day she is very much alive. Residing in some northern canyon along the Himalayas. Paradise subsided years ago along with a dream,.. of a lonesome grief -stricken man dancing briefly along the rocky cliffs. Prior to the ice and the avalanche of decades.
She would moan from the pangs of Childbirth.
Her legs split,...with the cunning knife of deception....
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