Saturday, March 21, 2015

pine tar

Writing is a stench, it's a gnarled rain-coffin unearthed from a muddy riverbed, headlights in the fog, a hollowed cross and emblematic veranda, it's a fever headache glimmering like a coin in the sand, holes for eyes, the bark and city-scape train rails slick with oil, aspirin tablets and sawdust on your caramel-wood floor. You can cherry pick it, call it sweet wet cedar, pristine mahogany, you can trace your smooth candy-coated bookshelf in your fancy apartment, your cobalt fish tank full of angry, ravenous red-bellied piranha you never feed,  but it's nothing more than grisly blocks of black-timber, a dull ax and morose funeral fire illuminating the white-hot coals underneath your skin, the veils of spider webs suffocating the ugly eyesores in the South we call Nigger Pines.

We praise the intoxicated author, the plantation and cotton fields, the blue gums of nappy headed children drinking berried fruit-boxes, the old watermelon wagons and sacks of freed banana, the metal silo and these mangled work boots and tired hands, a writer; some feckless bishop in a cathedral of silence, the artful domed ceiling, the angels and demons all clawing and biting at each others grimy neck, the dramatic outbursts and slow-moving molasses time lapse of the last several minutes, the lemon peels and scalps of orange, the obese and shirtless ghoul haunting the skinny hallway that poses as a toilet for the disorderly, the blackened and rock-hard monstrous globes of chewing gum embedded and fetid urine stains bestowing a sad mural and outrageous mosaic with no title, an endless and timeless dirt road with no rocks, a hangman's knot tied to a fence post.

We can beautify it, ignore the rattle of a makeshift ambulance and prison full of priests and hospital workers, the dust plumes and lead-based paint, the marrow and jetting nail from the sun-warped cart, we can make the dry garden canvas grow with tarred flowers, sprouting new vibrant green stalks and peppered with willow leaves, the bitter rays of poetic sunlight and even mention the canary yellow dress on a scented laundry line, the bathing sunshine on your pretty face.

Wednesday, March 18, 2015


I wish I was in an Israeli olive orchard, a cranberry camouflaged rain-garden of blushing amber or dozing off on an old rotten wood dock in North Georgia, my pale lemony skin and gelid eyes closed, the murky green syrup and soft moss among the forgotten timber and remnants of lions. The frayed fishing line spiderwebs and rusting skeletal frame underneath, horrid stalks of amputated Elms, the melting topaz stalactites from another planet made from abstract pools of hemorrhaging orange pond-mercury, the sunken motor-boat; a lavish ruptured hotel of decayed mildew and festering allure, the artery-blue metallic crank and stolen ship-anchor, the silvery tadpoles making shy ripples and scintillating particle reflections for the dart frogs, a dedicated chorus of army-turtle on the trunk-pulpit of a dead blood-Oak.

The buzzing dragonflies are like tiny insecure Apache helicopters, the playful adolescent fireflies like brightly elusive falling stars, little light-houses illuminating in random outbursts, crazy intertwined and complex circuit boards on the rocky shoreline. The drone of predatory mosquito's and bewildered cistern-ants on the march, they look like a militia of rag-tag Somali soldiers, all lined up on the gentle arc of a bending grape colored twig, a battle formation for the drunk, an African safari sun-dome in a humid swarm of itching and bruising welts of color and fig. Broken leaves beneath a ceiling of ashen Skyline-ivy, birch bugs, skyscraper-beetles and titanic elephant snails, the lone stone faucet in a newly carved mountain cavern, a deep puddle of chrome and golden haze, the slumber of a sleepy gray squirrel, a bed of almonds and cashews, the old logging road permeated with the debris of Cherokee Rose and castle-thistle, blackened tomato vines and fractured tiles of glassy praying mantis, the milky chalk-pumice and dewy honey droplets, the ever-expanding moisture on a delicate Chennai tea-leaf.

The white bay-pines and canopy of burnt green kudzu are almost made of breath, subdued daylight, the brittle ambrosial bark and scalped branches from a previously angry storm, the heavily blotted purple bloom-clouds and obscure waves of diminishing contrast, the silent fall of musical light ribbons, a canvas brown floor-map of rough texture and abrasive burlap, the permanent sky spitting icy horse carousels and dragon sand blasted globes of frozen teardrops, reminiscent of your Heaven-resting dog, your only friend, a flowery dung heap for a grave, the small wet footprints in the red clay, the muddy maze of sharp sticks and scattered smooth river-rock, the strewn hay-straw and cold frost-needles make a nice nest for the trembling Wren.

Monday, March 16, 2015

New City

Caramel flavor, sour apple watches, delicate velvet and ample smiles, a malfunctioning electronic cartridge, gentle blinking headlights, a cranberry-lemon colored taxi cab and the black stealing, the poor begging and the hungry, intoxicated; an ancient Arab breaking the back of a Tiger-cat with a broom-stick, the molasses colored man slumps horribly, shot by a juvenile sniper, the centric legionary's keeping order, the Pachyderm elephants crushing a vendors' kiosk, the sensitive particles and circuit boards splinter like shards of small shoulder blades.

I feel the New York metropolis of smooth, wet pavement, the cold droplets and infected plague stations, the raving alchemists, the makeshift morgue's and oily burnt remnants of a stark communist banner. The budding linen factories for the malnourished bodies, the white coat labs and synthetic air, the breathing masks and paramedic-goggles, the tarred, slick, typhoon-withstanding bio-suits and infirmary of plastic rosary beads, the splotchy red viral strains and pandemic fish tanks and canisters of hazardous waste, scented florid chemicals and legions of sunlight coral, sea-salt and sweet cinnamon, aged brine and packets of blood for fusion.

Silver scope-sighting, recrudescent crosses and hurried paratrooper Nuns, the roof and pitter-patter of nylon parachutes, the canary-yellow blood spattered doctors and apothecary assistant doves, the balloon animal pocked-faced nurses carrying human-sticks to burn, the eruption of incinerator doors, the colorless hallway and vacant limb-carts, the basement furnace and brackish barrels of unused lye.

Inside the corrosive veins and lacquering countenance, bludgeoned arteries and raw optical nerves, examining the sheared stomach and terrible, malcontent offal, the devoid eyes stare into the empty illusion of a fluorescent heaven. The broken teeth, glass jars, the syrupy emerald scalpel and subsequent spider-balm, absorbent pine-sol and stale bleach, the mouth agape, shaking and convulsing wax-skeletons.

The vexed puddles dissolving, sand bags and sawdust-clerks and call centers and nuclear bile in the caustic street, the silent traffic of belly-up cargo planes, the U-shaped drains and hydraulic valves, the leaking ceiling faucets and fractured spring-globe, the drowsy mechanical sky and migraine of light showers, the stoic, starving horrors among the dead and dying sewer flowers. Unhappy brown lepers perched atop cardboard and tobacco cathedrals, a niggardly Priest scorching a stolen spoon, the hum of Hindu charms in a painted window, the magical lucid veils and lurid vapors, a nearly nude ebony whale, belligerent and bickering madly over the dim-light of a pristine Persian oil lamp, inside an unknown apartment a tarnished mildew mop and mahogany lion, a silica-gel floor rug, the quiet blinds and sharp poetic contrast and cash register almost full, a secret shop of manufactured pharmaceuticals and free stickers.

Below an escaped inmate on a corner stoop harvesting the rubbish and garbage heaps, the copper coins and strands of silken hair, the iron charcoal colored rails and steps to the narcotics parlor. Perfume reset buttons for the vents, the severe mustache of a tiny wrinkled olive shaped merchant, the Egyptian automatic rifle and a feudal Japanese sword in a locked display case, the strange Haitian icons and Baroque shelves of dusty manure, European deodorant, the surgically opened capsules on the counter, the buttocks injections and boxes of pensive pencils, the camel picture adjacent a storm cloud photograph reprint, the filtered box-fan rattles like an old carnival of Chevrolet's, distant orange fumes of hybrid-gasoline and dry malt liquor, tin cans of corn whiskey and illegal Mexican-rum, the scowl of the fat wife and her pursed blue lips, her elegant elongated eyelashes of India, the neatly intertwined coil of exotic bracelets and the repulsive cyclops staggers and stumbles like an invalid, inebriated punch-drunk boxer, the grinning idiot son washing the floor, drooling pink tongue protruding, a parrot in an apoplectic rage dances on a free television, the cord frayed and entrails exposed, the beautiful Predator drones and Reaper smoke, the charred cinders of a Toyota Hilux, the explosive violence outside and thick marrow of a suicidal crimson puddle.

I hear the blaring siren's, the faux terrorists and fucked orchestra of immigrated felons, the failing power-lines, the barely functioning power grid and newly proposed daily tax legislation, bar-codes and artificial currency, the apocalyptic Punjabi pundit prophesying to his plaudits, the petite pleasure workers and the madness culprit, the plot and plodding of the howling ambulances, ambulant avenue's and stray bus terminals, the terse train tubes and the tarmac of terminally ill short skirts masquerading and posing as tethered pendulum's among the traumatic powdery chalk outlines of tall mannequin's, the corrupt politician cyborgs and unbroken robotic frequency of scrubbed static, the systematic valley of Kings, the propaganda skull posters, the slow scrape of a busted wall-clock, the bleary rain pelting a metal shack full of antique porcelain dolls.

Sunday, March 15, 2015

Morning, A crystallized sky-line, glossy rivers and the shivering slumber of icy-pine needles by the lake. The inky tar and black blots of boat-oil, patchwork canals of fence mazes and the dull hum of tired farm machinery, old ugly metal buckets of porch-nails and beautiful relics of rust. 

The town, a stolen raft, flickering street lamps and ghosts, the wooden ladders, torch lanterns and death rattle of brittle winter leaves. Barren cold sidewalks and the lost umbrella of a coin-fountain thief. A burlap knapsack and window clover trinket, a Chimney Swift blends and blankets the crumbling spire, the acerbic wound of sadness and neglect, life and death. 

Daybreak to day end, empty silo, gunshot tin and the scarred shrapnel holes look like the strange black eyes of a veiled Cobra Lily, the dozing paint horses in the pasture, the unkempt tangle of British-Indian copse, a kudzu shrouded wheelbarrow full of rotten timber frames, a musky mausoleum of twigs and scattered bones of broken limbs, an archaic scythe buried by ageless red dirt and shore-clay, shy Castle-Oaks gazing about from the faint tendrils of fading sunlight, burnt-sepia portraits of flawless fake stage-actors and books and verses neatly encased in gospel-twine, the silent library of decapitated statue's and poorly written manuscripts concerning the political theater and scent of wet cedar, the kitchen of arbitrary blacks and pale-checkered floor, a small milk puddle from a broken glass pitcher.

City of silken madness, melting nightfall and sunrise rain, a cylinder of patterns and pious and pallid angels, the scape and nape of your neck, French architecture and caustic rogue pavement, white-pearlescent stone and charred marble rock, the sinister guillotine and smooth barely bruised texture of the brick bulwark, the bleak prison on the hill, the bastion of classical loneliness and aged cinematic veranda. The vacant hotel and embassy knots of exposed blood-roots and blue-demure, a battalion with no tanks taking rest, makeshift army-cots and estranged tents, sewing angry fabric for old holes, green soldiers smoking cigarettes and talking loudly, a rasp fist-fight and barbaric yawp from an inquisitive citizen-gnome. The Capital Bank and police on patrol, a lone drunk with a bottle of urine as his only companion, a memory of a dog, long gone, dead and buried in a cemetery that is no longer there, lavender petals on the water, an orchard of frozen flowers and permanent ache in the hollow bark of his open chest.

Monday, February 17, 2014


Everyone speaks with an echo, infernal dying light and sad embers of painted freezing flames, the slick snow-wet brickwork ; patchwork pastels and bright white wintry mixture, the baleful bliss and bales of pallid cigar smoke drifting through the battered cold clouds.

Hands down, holding sexual gazes, an arabesque pirouette, punctured coke cans and rushing icy plateau's, meek favorable fawns dozing in the meadow. An erotic curve and playful bite mark on your inner thigh, bit lip, window closed, day-break; warm-hot breath on the steel blue-blinds, iris cobalt of laconic ambulant shadows kissing and humming softly.

Tracing fingertips, veiled low-moaning movement manifesto, occulent orchid drones, perpetually violent sun-light in violet shock-waves, sleet-showers of pensive poetic skin, hard thick covers in an arctic embrace of vicious cinders, a romantic snow-globe of frozen rain, the slow rails and shotgun mortuary's of the drowsy city plantation outside.

Inside, lavender and licorice, charming faux wax on waxen wooden floors, a gentle tender smooth salient and succulent caramel ass on my bed, an intoxicated heaven, kiss your neck, to the center, tongue circling the darker color, yummy areola's and the other, the dreary snowflakes start to fall like silver ashen petals, triple opaque hue portraits of passive pearlesque busted plates, you are pretty and purring like resplendent raspberries in a frost gulch, soft glacier blooms and gelid mist over the sleepy street-lamps.

Friday, January 31, 2014

midas touch

I feel like I was bitten by a prostitute, a rust colored prosthetic limb razing my dead skin. Old golden holes and window eyes for window dummies, all neatly dressed ebony mannequins along a sidewalk of chewing gum.

Squared apartment complex, a labyrinth of skinny-fat whores, unsophisticated money and coin. Gaze and wasted stems, sporadic discarded wrappers, small delicate frames of plastique human-explosives, candy and sugar coated arteries under the robes and veils of clothes and chemical smells.

Traffic-Legionary's and the terse stampede of caramel gluts for the gluttons, the oil thieves and starving horrors behind the dumpster. A black deep onyx cigar box, unbelievable smooth texture, the slender curve and ripple of magnetic, poetic skin, brutal teeth marks, demons, a bludgeoned Afghan slick with rain, sickly story birds and blue bruises under her eyes.

Thursday, January 30, 2014


Fucked up ruinous portraits, all ivory blasted hollow to fit in these ceramic mosaics. Black caskets and hezbollah yellow, terroristic birds on a wire with caustic echo's.

It shall be for flocks, so sayeth the Lord. Skittish skinny arms, sunlight orchids, bereaved elms bent like filtered light through a battered window blind, it's bearable, these god-less, goddamn exploding barrels of burnt flowers.

A blustery winter mixture of snow and ice; an aftermath debris blood red and holding their dead children like blankets of starved tree limbs, flags and burlap sacks, they look like little skeletal cages, silver tracks in the snow, the birds look like tiny plague doctors or nigger priests perched on the curved rib of a makeshift pulpit.