Monday, December 19, 2011

maduro gurkha fuerte

On a South African elephant trail, I spy a sunset safari and a sailing gazelle in the sand, it has dark chocolate eyes that are barely alive, it's guts torn and pulled like a knotted and tangled anchor rope, the shipyards are alone and quiescent, majestic towers and machine-gun turrets, disarming flies, broken goblets of precious clay, oily pastels and butterflies, hollowed burned out tanks at the bay. It lays there in a slick velvet heap, thick red gluts and deeply ebony matted texture, white foam from the mouth, the last vapors of a starless dream. There are wind orchids all fucked and askew, heroin jungles and petrol bombs unexploded. Fragments of angry ghosts caught in the razor-wire, a flat canopy pock marked with cobra blood, I feel its remote sadness, the unbearable darkness shroud, the entombed casks and aged barrels of cognac, an adolescent onyx soldier equally gut shot and breathing in heavy leaden gasps, his wild cricket eyes terrified and drifting like clouds.

Stark, raving, madness and trumpets blaring, I can feel death and happiness, the enslaved rain gardens and dry leaves, howling streets and empty book coffins, abandoned buildings, bombed automobiles and sparks from a traffic robot. Knavish voyeurs, blue panties and the ghastly pierced blots of pumice. I feel ballistic, a writing fuck miracle chased by swarms of bullet-head niggers, shotgun hole in my heart, frozen stems of brisk violets, packs of newport, orange beret. With unfolded smooth arms, a luxurious; curious ocean and portraits of sliding glass rails, robotic ashes in the snow, Egyptian cotton, dove-less wings and stormy coal-tablets, escaping animals, my unhappy and verily meshing subtle forest of lash and hot sticky balm, inky eyelids and rare untouched iris of shining eyes.

Sunday, November 13, 2011

unblemished

Outside, Whiskey barrels and cigar coffins, palsy people and obliterated sun-shards, sun-gardens and faded linoleum sun-safari's. Rotting stables, overly, bitterly astonished faces, the chupacabra laughing and howling at the soft, old day. A screen-door Jesus, sober paint splotches and hollering buckets of shivering, melting snow, raw leprosy and fake plastic carousel of pretend, pretty girls.

Inside, Sun grown, Rum Belicoso, aged Spanish Cedar cases, silver locket, the slick, sweet succulent aromatic curl of you, smooth caramel hip ensnared by your phosphorescent pink satin veil, mocha moth at a sea-lantern, ample landscape masterpiece, work of art, shore-line, sun-light haze of an aficionado's craft, a calming alluring contrast like a poem, verily poised naked, a mosaic sash of shadowy maduro skin, sad fractals of the window blinds, vinyl basket of butterflies, a baleful valet of candied chocolate eyes, petite drink of cognac, licorice and lavender hand-written letters, scented  lilac twilight of luscious opulent delight, lightly bitten twice, laconic and lovely valley of you, laying there like a pensive and purring angel on the bed.

Wednesday, November 9, 2011

war

Ballistic writing, be nice if Israeli bombs grow fat, cinder Islam and every waking body, the mantis and cloth drapes of each dwelling, ribbons and spirals of dust, watching the skies bludgeon with aching fever and bruise-swelling. Ashen faces charred with hot white-heat, scaffolds dry and bleached, endless trash-avenues of dirt and starving dogs, an arm, a leg, a pair of small feet. Perished horse, broken bottles and knees, A lavish royal palace, poetic nuclear breeze, melting bodies with faces laughing, death dancing on the skeletal leaves.

Wednesday, October 26, 2011

terse gaze

..to write this way is like raving or a cloud.
-Dostoevsky

Watchful eyes and the charms of our idols, the icons and passing, falling towers. A ballistic capital, the bells and frost morgues, a funeral of leafy wheel-barrows and inky tablets, the insides of a dead soul, glass jars in the street, library cataclysm, the literary beauties and raw youth. Niagara downpour, lemony fingers, tsunami debris, inhuman cattle herds, the slow-slated stone tiles and awning of dozy, lethargic roofs, the slothful arms of sleepy zombies, the urgent surge and precinct assault, a cutlass machete, starving windmill, howling apocalypse.

Thursday, October 20, 2011

cellar of existentialism

Lonely Vikings part II. This was etched onto recycled paper last Fall, approximately 4:32 am on a Thursday. Part I was mistakenly erased in a frantic Nikolai Gogol moment after reading "Dead Souls", though both versions of 'Vikings' were similar in context if I remember correctly, written from the same shaky black desk, the same useless glowing keyboard, long lashes and the like, the delicate cast-iron pen of a madman, a gambler like my dead hero. You can also learn a lot from the shady dealing, Chichikov. 

The bulk of copper is in the basement, it's scintillating; bare bright number 1, they lay in battered coils among the forgotten suits of wool and the spider egg globes, a smelly gas canister with barely a gallon of the liquid gold, another tank with a mixture of oil and fuel, the petrol for a broken weed eater, a sober hedge clipper, starry patterns of mold and galaxies of coffin dust lay in ruin with the weathered boxes.

There are spotless hordes of unused tools and greasy well loved ones, the heavy red tool box that doesn't close properly, warped by years of abuse, grape juice and hardly a vineyard, the drizzle of rain never once yielding a single grape, the moist fence posts fat from the rain and comforted by the sodden leaves of remote grass.

Empty aerosol canisters stand like hopeless sentinels in brittle wooden apple crates, a raggedy vegetable cart and sack of rye, salvaged and starved fields of robust wire skin pollute the shelled cement floor in strange heaps and tin silo's, a crumb of fetid bread in the corner for the camel crickets and the decayed remnants of a frozen rat turd. Sweet-gum Cardboard boxes containing recycled paper garbage, spirals of telephone wire and broken circuit boards, old phlegmatic filters and the skeletal syrupy remains of an orchid grasshopper, an old Charlatan record for Jen, hidden gloved treasures, a sad oil-lamp with a holy Saki Monkey atop an imperial throne, the banana a tarnished gold and somehow majestic in the pallid calm of light.

On the wall there are cracked fruit jars and a cedar cigar box containing 200 year old stamps, a stray nail or two, feral caskets, mesh baskets and some curled latticework sections from an ugly abandoned house littered with ghosts.

The badly painted and wood-chipped door is slightly ajar, it looks chewed by a ravenous rodent and neglected for a thousand years. An ancient coke can lays on a bed of antique doll parts. There is a sincere Japanese paper lantern and a copper-chrome nozzle that doesn't fit any arc welder I have. There are small cut hoses and some old box fans. As a well-versed child , I pretended they were skyscrapers, I would stare into the hollow shadows of a small dying electric heater, my tiny elf ears reddened by the imagination and soothing heat of being fantastically poor, I pretended it was an industrial  furnace, I was cold.

There are bamboo stalks through the northern foggy-damp window, slick residue on the tanned glass, there is a small splinter imperfection on the sill and some distraught thumb-tacks. It looks like a miry Thailand jungle canopy outside especially when there are torturous downpours, scanning the ceiling canvas for cobwebs, eyes downward and it's at least ten degrees cooler, the melodic tools and the odd coal chip from outside, a wood chipper missing the choke and astringent cord, bleary-tarred work boots and a beaten hammer lay together like two bitter lovers.

Dog-eared classic novels in a bludgeoned shoe-box, write like Rembrandt, blind you with its sheer beauty, my beatific world of phosphorous chewing-gum maples and lightly shelled brick steps with slender black iron Israeli railing. This soft old day, a muddy glimpse into a dank basement and the toys of youth, I wanted to drink plant food as an infant, I loved the pristine blue liquid, the angelic globes and spheres above my pallet in the floor. My warm blanket of frost, I would daydream and pretend to ride with swords slashing, my horned helmet and animal skin suit, my loud rapturous yawp reverberating throughout the plagued countryside and poetic valley before the mountains.

There is a chewed pen in my hand, a pen I wrote insecure stories with, a colorless WWII panzer tank once wrapped with newspaper, still entombed in a glass-case- my treasured plastic toy model on an discombobulated shelf, the tank looks like it crawled to an end, it was hit by a Sherman, it sparked with vicious grease plumes of boiling smoke and waxen fire, it must have sat and burned for three days. I imagine some of the little soldiers were half torn and blown away, their little plastic bodies sheared from high caliber bullets from other glued toys with rifles. Some were melted, at the end of the day, War is God.  

Here they are..here's what I've been looking for. The Vikings, their red beards and ice boats, their swords somber and resting on the mantle of the fireplace. The caramel wood, there are stacks of silent books as well, abandoned photographs and lemon peels in an old metal crate. There is a cast iron wood stove and pieces of bronze shrapnel in a war-weary tin bucket, there are heavy Spanish coins I found on a horse carousel at Lakeshore, their strange plastic allure no longer alive but breathing in thick gasps and gushes as the blurs of the determined faces all go sailing by, it's one of my favorite sounds, I love when they gallop, it sounds like thunder when they gallop.

Sunday, October 16, 2011

white nights

"My nights came to an end with a morning. The weather was dreadful. It was pouring, and the rain kept beating dismally against my windowpanes". -F. Dostoevsky

I watched a fat magpie reflect on azure wings, the slight curve of a sandy white twig, an overly unhappy cloudless sky turned to dark rustic gray, a staircase of wooden architecture, inky petals and cold coffin nails, dancing leaves and tender enemies, an array of violet ivy, a splash of newborn color, orange and purple bruises about the farms on the bleak horizon, the mirror and prismatic speech of an optical treepie, the slumbering contrast of light and dark ribbons, Dali's moribund Ballerina in an elegant and lavish swirl, in a rushing revolution of flat emotion, contorted bends, ribs and bands exposed, a fierce silhouette of silver gushes in the shadowy remnants of fallen snow, small actors dying with no vigor, nomadic tracks pressed meekly into the icy walk.

It's so very true, how we are, how we see the loneliness of the world and how one pristine moment of bliss can erase so much, dispatched mortuary's, executed daylight, so much that has mudded our outer shells and inside happiness, the sharp feathers and tranquil storms in heaven. I've walked those dreary streets, the blistering arctic wind has hit my damaged face and tattered poor overcoat. I've stared into the blurry circles of traffic lights, they've always reminded me of the inner circuits of maintenance robots, I've lived in this futuristic frost-globe for quite some time, a relic of sadness and loss, seduced by sirens and blaring ambulances, poetic floods of potent machines posing as vampiristic cannibals, charcoaled apparitions and silken ghost orchids on the trail.

I'm translating the frigid metal signposts, scanning the bar codes and numeric patterns and disturbing fractals, the dizzy subway labyrinth's and maze of half-eaten homeless people, ordinary and antique cedar skeleton's, mostly under-fed mannequins frozen in still-life, the battery terminals and computer lovers, I never expected a fem-bot to fall in love with me, my unnoticed and insignificant blot of southern oak balm, the punctured oxygen masks and dangerous vapors from the cemented-soil, the infested sewers and infected mechanical wharf rats, the insidious germs and speckled cholera of New York City.

 I wasn't entirely sure that I was capable of falling in love, my botched programming errors and shoddy mainframe technology, I assumed my obtuse life would mold and further turn to soda-fungus in the forest, I'm armed with a terse tongue, broad-manufactured shoulders, a vocabulary factory of sparking wires and spilled gasoline odor, oiled kneecaps and tired art-work camouflage, liquid narcotics and chalky residue bearings, opulent framework with abnormal emerald lenses.

I trod in silence, no trace, no sound of a footstep, a classical piano blackened by soot and heavy selfish anchors, I appreciate the somber armada of evaporating light concerning a city skyline that looks like emboldened metallic fingers in the dusk. I am fascinated by such things, bright armory's and ballistic missiles, vicious plants and feminine war-planes, I love caramel French-Pyrenees alp cherries and synthetic acorns, a damp sodden floor of gelid pine needles, the beautiful mulch of a canopied pond in the middle of a dense wilderness. I've found so many secret meadows, spied the gentle creatures, the playful scurry of spotted chipmunks, the battalions of army-squirrels and knavish fruit flies, the elephantine bullet-ants and coal-colored gunfire-bugs, we should love them, the arson-flies and banks of fatal hollis fern, wild berries and chocolate timber, they don't have harmful smiles, hurtful innuendo's and ravenous lust, the oblong lies and brutal cruel tyranny of fraudulent friends who sink their teeth into your head. I love insects, broken papery birch-branches and the boisterous bellow of king-frogs. I love the calm of cobwebs and the swaying ceiling painted with spider-bats, a living cloud of funny noses and battered mosquito's, the blood-bloated little bastards being devoured in the quiet twilight, a haze of burnt gold and bronze amber fusion.

I scribbled your name in the precious dove-clay, at the end of a velvet lash, on love notes inside a Queen B cigar box, within aged and expensive stone wrappers and on the first page of a favorite collection of short stories, the deceased author and grim imprint left on my soul, novels in my chest, tears on your cheek. I know you like banal modern literature but Dostoevsky is a gift you don't ask for, it's for the thinker, it's for someone like you, and how at times I can almost feel you smile, how I tell you that each day since meeting you has been a gift. You are a gift, our cozy furnished apartment and lavender apron, my hands around your waist, sweet kiss on your neck.

We relate to the walker, the houses and robotic morose despondency, I picture you often on your sidewalks, the cracks and atomic blobs of gum look like pink land-mines created by a childish Taliban, your tiny new balance feet in a scamper across the lemony baroque bridges and under the veils of smoky topaz, the angry kidney pumice growing like black and eyeless cancer cells inside of me, on the bus as it rains, your pretty voice and musical satchel, you have pretty eyes, the outside grimy goblet of picturesque umbrellas and brittle-bone-white structures, people in swarming yellow hives and in frenzied wild-african packs, the buildings and drowsy parks where they sleep, all wild and mad with a carnival's delight, subtle lepers trying to change their melting spots of rotten skin, the ferris wheels ablaze and shouts of masked-Halloween laughter, the popping balloons and clown paint, the October arcs and neon glow abuzz, the ugly red strobes and avenue of parading crowds, forlorn elbows and abandoned handicapped chairs, the bare toes of a starving hunger artist, the pensive onyx-iron bars and warm nestle of yellowed straw, the slick beams and mysterious tents, marked marble benches and gritty asphalt littered with debris, microscopic tins of rare crayons, strewn confetti and sugary candy wrappers in the dirt, millions of praying mantis at the fair, the belly sized ring of applauding bells and laconic sleet, the stricken faces and apple-bobbing roar of a forgotten wood-barrel of salt-brine, the chitter-chatter of insecure first dates, tarnished deer in the grass, the sleek cheetah and candied gazelle, a stalwart lion at the neck of an infant, predatory cazadors in a fixed-game, you can never shoot the limit and win the imitation prize, the pellet goes astray and hits a morbidly obese woman eating a funnel cake from her shirt, putrid boxes of popcorn, that overwhelming buttery stench, a nuclear fallout at the bay, at the covered and all dolled-up docks, malfunctioning radar, hues of ebony and candela banana peels, splotched bicycles and taverns of stuffed animals, stuffed pillows and weird goldfish, the brightly lit shoppes and toothless beggar in a drunk bucket of urine, the rank scent of faded puke and wealthy top hats, a banker and shoe-maker trying to arm-wrestle for a peanut-sized trophy, a quick fist-fight, an all-mouth italian with a fractured jaw and broken orbital bone, the Irish-drunk prize-fighter carried away in a foggy triumph, a soft faggot screams at the puddle of blood before he is bludgeoned by a tire iron, wallet stolen by the miniature bandito's, the dumbfounded mothers and intoxicated priests, the police patrols out-smarted by a dyslexic and cross-eyed thief with no arms or legs, the slow-witted and invalid adolescents, the sober hordes of corporate assassins, my hyper-vigilance, on a respirator, my apparatus breathing the artificial cotton-candy air, a click and slight hum, apparently an ersatz aphid, the blinking blue-green dot, outside the glass of this contaminated fishbowl, I watch them swim, I watch the leaves fall, the sap is a sweet nectar, bathing like birds in a bowl, it's like pine syrup, a bunch of bugs imprisoned in molasses.

Wednesday, October 12, 2011

Brevas Royale

"Special Selection"..My elegant combination of words were originally posted within the last few years, some were kept in jars like tobacco spiders, these Arturo Fuente stylized writing clippings have been on the recycle and cutting room floor, my sad factory of closed doors and busted windows, they lay silently on dusty wooden shelves and a few in my fancy cedar box among the classics, the more expensive Hemingway's and a rare Ashton maduro, my Queen B Jenny, it's easy to create with a magical pen, my imaginary basement where I neglect my ageless and dying craft, I added marginal spice and allegorical filler, Brevas are actually best in late October, the spice elevates the changing leaves and splashes of burnt color, a creamy Cameroon wrapper, not bad for 2 bucks a stick, give aways, mostly.

I am a cheap skate, I normally opt for the Curly Head or a Montesino if I decide to have a smoke in front of guests and they aren't connoisseurs, it's a rule to never give away an expensive fine cigar, but to feel like a gent, you can give away a Montesino, they're almost top notch, they all come from the same factory and coffee-spit of a drunken mummified torcedora.

These are the clippings of larger works, recklessly intertwined and constructed via a makeshift tourniquet, poor wrappings and exposure veins on the outer leaf, very much like a Brevas Royale, every now and then one of them will be elite, they contain a combination of every tobacco in the Fuente line, it's kinda like the potted meat of cigars, it isn't actual meat, just lips and peckers, a finger, ground up bone, the 'throw away' stuff someone got the bright idea to make use of, basically when extraordinary thoroughbred race horses die, they turn them into dog food, even if they were Triple Crown winners, it's recycled and that's how the world lives, nothing goes out to pasture on a champion's shield or crest, you get recycled, again, that's how the world lives.

Another rain garden, grape windows and another canopy of obliterated sunrise pain. I feel like a gutted deer laying in the middle of Riverside. A split gray head and the fractured lens of an elevated eye, my pink brain fragments on the wet asphalt as it rains harder, the gutter of drowned colorless leaves and broken branches overflowing into an ugly paradise of trees and manufactured green, gun-metal bridges. A terse gaze for a rabid society of bitter wolves that can never echo the gentle meek and the harmless expanding drift of my red puddle.

My lachrymose lumber room is suffocated by strangle copse and blotted by the balmy stalks of elk-thistle. The grimy windows are ever-busted and cast miry reflections of antique timber full of yellowed firefly glass and the silken sad labyrinths of slit cobwebs. They sway softly as the veiled wings of butterfly orchids in a sodden fern garden of plant rubbish and endured loneliness. 

I lay there like an old dead dry-rotted tire blackened by the falling embers of destroyed rain. Haunted cedar stumps are peppered with the hurtful lines I methodically pen and scarred by the rotten mulch of pale orange knife fissures. I have the complexion of a molding rose, quiet as the pine straw needles of far away stormy traffic. They look like bleary lanterns in the melancholy stillness.

Delicate charcoal moth feather my lemony ruptured skin, I am spotted with splotched purple and blotched with festering blue cavern holes, a parasitic deer-tick feeds on my leaking amber-marrow. I am as silent as the faded bristles of my hollowed cheek. With eyes half askew and badly broken limbs I see drowsy trees and the rusted bones of an old tractor. My soggy drench and dug red clay wall, the scattered gravel is dappled and grayer still. The exposed roots look like the arms of imprisoned goblins.

The roof of the lumber room is sunken and looks like the opening self-inflicted gunshot mouth of the dying elderly. A sickly seared plank; the last remaining discolored tooth of the hollow blackness.

My dark plastic garbage shroud is torn and gaping; a scent of bleach; blanched with the dragged agony of slow decay. I lay neatly nestled among the autumn ruin in the calming quiet before the numbing frost.

Doleful globes of cold cobalt make insecure trails of my curled and tattered tarp. I am a failed author with tired jetting ribs slick with juicy insect-mold, I feel like a bedraggled and fallen horse asleep in heavy piles of rotting sadness. A liquid barbaric pearl growing out of spite in my lower torso full of black sharp railroad spikes, my dank melting body of lifeless words and silent blossoms of poetic brush strokes and ugly meadows of umbrella mushrooms. I lay like a vernal bloom painted in field of completely silent ambrosial flowers..I am almost untouched by the dolorous rain.

Sunday, September 25, 2011

amatory pictures

I know it's the future, staring at the kinetic wires, artificial lemon-wood floors curled with fabric debris, deadly iris onyx spirals and caramel tryst. The melancholy and mechanical blends, the slender arms of torpedo trains, liquid narcotic robotic kisses and lavish tangles of shark fins.

We flicker and shimmer like holographic candles, droplets of melting wax, movement of veiled wings on the whimsical waves, a crystallized man o'war cigar dripping with ice. Blossoms of useless fruits in the peach trees, purring plum cables and ballistic batteries gut shot with caustic acid, sleepy drowsy ferns exploding surreal reality, tranquil torsos at the hill top avenue, arid air conditioning systematic climate control, ventilated breath, the blurry and bleary chasing butterfly farms, the cindered canal and metal arch of the broken bridge scape's, the tremble of rope anchors,  the ashen edge of the syrupy river and slumbering shoe factories. Sky lines of sky torches burnt into the sad somber eyes, the colorless soldiers, the synthetic windows, mirrored silver linoleum hospitals and plagues of viral computers, walking bot mantis in sexual delivery mode, violet voracious sky gardens and sky slums, the cloud cafĆ©'s and blest rain spitting on the sweat of plastic opaque bodies.

Sunday, September 4, 2011

yum yum II

I shouldn't make spirals and circles in the wooden sand, parachutes of wild orchids, cinnamon sparks, florid ferns and red berried wine, syrupy goblets and taciturn lanterns waking at the bay, poetic sky-blinding, sky-flying, sky-walking scribbles and pirouettes about caramel hip kissing, tracing your navel and all the things you like. Arms up, lip-bitten, pressed warm and wet, thick and hard, soft succulent humming, how you bend and move like lavender liquid narcotics, toes curled and the pallid light falling through the blinds. You look like a bronze angel laying there as the shards of newborn daylight lacquer your lilac landscape of perfumed prose and painted stalks of honey thistle, a faint brush and bristles, pink panties in the floor, the covers a battleground, blankets at your side, the flowerbeds in heaven, the pitcher plant on the windowsill, the dreary rain-drizzle and sad embers of the volcanic lake, the molten lava and rigid rocks, the stripes of contrast, just what you like, meshing Guyanese chocolate and opaque eggshell white, my green iris ablaze, those magnificent doll eyes, waterfall lash, small stature, sugary sky outside, inside breathing and humming, always humming, yummy yum yum humming like a melting sugar cube on my tongue.

Monday, August 22, 2011

gun-green umbrella

Glanton spat. Hack away you mean red nigger, he said, and the old man raised the axe and split the head of John Joel Glanton to the thrapple. - Blood Meridian.

Like an apparition, I watch melodic mnemonic strangers melt into the daylight, seduced cartridges within dead shells under my feet, shell casings and ballistic bits of chalk. I sit on black smooth stone benches and watch the floods of ebony and caramel colored curses, prisons of sleek shoes and Lakeshore's grimy, gum-splotched sidewalks of foaming, rabid people in a death-dance, a sad, somber elevator waltz, mechanical doors that don't operate properly, exploding army-arcs of butterfly orchestrated escalator helicopters overhead, hit by rockets, little people pouring out like bitter-camouflaged pepper snowflakes, the blood-bloated moth-markets and suicidal shoppers, duct-taped bombs on the backs of aspiring adolescents, flashing cement shards and silent nails, afghan red camels and expensive leather wallets among the ruined plastic mannequins and destroyed rubble, red eyes, red bones and red marrow, raw red canvas of cobblestone and weeping red gluts between the ribs.

Tuesday, July 26, 2011

rum horses

I'd be writing makeshift Westerns if they'd let me, out there lost and on some ugly plain in Mexico, watching the cactus glow bronze with the developing dusk, riding the rains and thunder clouds, disappearing into those sad eyes.

I'd trade my luxury prison for some dusty boots, a pistol and classical cigars, an angry horse galloping in the basin, a man killed in a saloon, gunshots; I'd be a villain, the hell with the womanizing Clint Eastwood, I like Lee Van Cleef, he looked like a predatory bird, a Barquero..in that one film.

It would take at least six shots to kill the local sheriff and the unfortunate deaf, dumb and blind kid that wandered into the crossfire, his head split like an apple, the first overly pale elderly lady that gasps would get one in the throat, staring into the wheels of a burnt wagon, the lavish hats of the wealthy pig-nosed ladies, the brightly colored umbrella's in the sunlight, the intoxicated whores and Chinese rail workers with their exotic potions and elixirs, I'd smoke Opium and try to shoot the passive ghosts of the buffalo, the blades and barking mongrels, I'd dodge the arrows of the red-clay smeared natives scalping the settlers and drinking their blood, I'd hoot and holler like a loon, I'd bathe in whiskey and soot, the cholera colored blankets and intrinsic poverty, the light and dark, coppery medallions and houses made of cedar, stone ruts and muddy avenues of wandering contrast, elaborate chests of Spanish treasure and skinny grave robbers, the old planks and dirty nails, my prismatic eyes, damp overflowing barrels of brine, the drench of stolen rye and swollen creek beds, chalky lips and tangles of briar copse, shooting gentle deer and leaden snakes, the public hangings, the ageless wooden scaffolds and toothless crowds throwing rotten lettuce at the bad guy as his gang arrives and starts shooting everyone, popping gunfire and helpless bodies falling in sickly clumps like sacks of worthless Irish immigrant potatoes, a jail break, a stern lasso for a neatly uniformed official, dragged raw by the time the border crossing is reached, the syrupy waves and smooth floor of rock, no cold iron bars, just silver horses and riding in the rain.

Monday, July 25, 2011

bucket of spit

Maybe I'll write like a broken heart today, maybe I'll just go to the dock and sit there. Maybe I'll catch a coppery glimpse of a bluegill. I should go dig up my dead friend, pick the flies from the forehead and have a drink. I should go to the farmers market and watch the airplanes roar and thunder overhead, I always feel like an army ant when I go there, the rats scurry in the parking lot, the big trucks come and go in methodical mazes, intertwined, never an accident, maybe it will spit rain on the windshields.

I should go to the city, watch the ebony colored people melt into the shadows, the ambulances and buzz of wireless phones and the newness of everything complex, the glass buildings and discarded cardboard cut-outs on the benches, the empty milk cartons and cigarette butts. I should go to the freeway, see if any body parts are still there from the wreck, I could duct tape them back together, little arms and legs, maybe I should put them back together, sprinkle some clover over the bruises and smile, I haven't really smiled since then, I haven't talked much either. Maybe I should stop speaking altogether, I'm mostly bitter and unhappy, maybe the dock isn't under water, maybe I'll see a mallard or a barge drifting in the water, maybe I'll walk into a cobweb along the wooded path to get there, maybe I'll get spiders in my hair or be bitten by a viper.

Maybe I should go down to Green Street, maybe the restaurant mansions won't be so busy, maybe an old tree will still be as beautiful as ever, maybe a police car will go zooming by with the lights and sirens on, maybe the post office and all the parcels will be on fire, maybe a stroller or two will be in the road sitting perfectly on the yellow lines, maybe people will call them buggies like they are supposed to, maybe someone on a bicycle will crash, maybe I'll gaze into the cafƩ windows at all the people in there eating their fancy bagels and cow juice, smiling and laughing, all wonderful and happy, all dolled up and smelling like mortuary perfume, all woven and etched into this fabric forever, maybe I should just continually pass by completely unnoticed.

Sunday, July 24, 2011

AƱejo Shark

My elaborate Hans Pfaall's unparalleled soliloquy to the internets..

Concerning the insects and Amy Winehouse,
perfume in your nose, it's easy to criticize until you realize this junkie accomplished more than most of you will, ever, in your entire lives, and it only took her 27 years, most of you will never have talent, you'll merely criticize it on yahoo because you are miserable in your own life and have nothing better to do. the venom laced comments here are atrocious, you little parasites are an example of what is wrong with the world-not people with genuine problems, imperfect people crucified by little online ghouls like yourselves, all chocked full of pubescent jealousy and spite, rage-love and honor, good job, you danced on someone's famous grave and no one will even know who you are when you die. faggots.
Briefly, I'm an ancient relic, rope tornado around my waist, sleek and sunny country roads, a hint of gasoline, gathering clay from some other time, a brooding ligero leaf, maduro, bitter and eventually a white ash or the color of a fresh bruise before it splotches the skin. The dreary rain, blotting horizon, a sleepy Oslo hillside, tiny undeveloped people coldly shot down, Holden Caulfield standing like a crude statue at his barbaric cliff with arms spread out like a dilapidated cross, Erofeyev's Parakeet on a twig, the convulsing field of flowered bodies and purple throats swollen with clotted blood, the rabid televised wolves and greasy barrels of cognac, the thick amber marrow, slow-blinking grids of fancy electric lights, a unique text at 10:10pm, my slumbering meadow, dreamless paradise of chalk-pumice and picture-perfect bay windows, a pearlescent sonnet of pristine lavender kisses on my rugged shoulder blades, My lovely pint-sized Jen, a bucket of spit for everyone else, the swaying rye and dewy morning sunshine, speckled hyena and wild african dogs, the frenzied yelps and curling vines, her moon-cricket friends, big lipped twats with bad manners, big-tittied ebony bulbs with no etiquette, bug-eyed, bleary-eyed, berry-eyed banana chasers, the rosado wrappers dried on the syrupy plant-rocks, the blaring ambulances and flashing sirens, the pools of burnt mercury and icy glacier water, the lacerated elephant trails and a severe Habano Nub, a stylized microscopic stick, the Cain version is elite, a secret lemon shark in Lanier, dark and oily, knock your dick in the dirt, the sweet cedar yards and pine coffins of sugary wet drifts.

I feel like an old and bedraggled pickup truck, a million miles of sad gray charged battery Acid cigars, beautiful but rustic orange outline, how I crawl up a sloping tin-boxed spine, a crooked cool slab once chrome and ever so slightly searing to the touch, the brittle flaky texture and grains of smooth gravel, salt and peppery asphalt, gritty and grimy scorched morgue floor-board bans and how I rattle and cough out violent bludgeoned blue fatal engine smoke in ugly arcs, the blistering burn, a badly cauterized skull, warped framework of busted bolts and pouring oil making unhappy puddles, a deaden onyx motor, how I clank and abruptly come to a halt, left by the roadside glass like some archaic and weathered ribcage painting with weeds growing in the dry rotted tires, a strange metal skeleton, my bad teeth in the grass.

Tuesday, July 12, 2011

Be still, I am God

I feel like a storm in a jar, I used to go fucking ballistic on this miserable digital paper, I used to write like I loved things, felt things, the raw vibrant orange flakes of rust and bitter decay, the molded tin shack paradise of Shope Road and lower Enota, the cow eyes and bristles of pine thistle, the ink balm parachutes, bride and groom gutted stomachs of anger and happiness.

Now I watch deer melt and glow golden with the dusk, they vanish like ghosts in the starless dark, heaven and the barbaric infection, my rotten kidneys and aborted liver, puke eyes and littered with speckled gum drops, tiny floating pink cities on the sidewalk.

I've written books as babies fester to drowsy skeletons in a swank garbage bag. Makeshift rubbish farms, polluted daylight canvas, pennies blot the heavy blankets of swaying skin, tire tracks in the mud, tangles of prison copse and kudzu splotches, the roach-bug metropolis and living body of bullet ants, the maggots and stench of decomposing flowers, that's what it looks like, dotted with leaves, miry and swollen with moth, corpse flies and the fogged lens of television camera's, an empty cistern, tiny arms, tiny legs with dirty socks turned to black, motherless and fatherless blots of glued teeth, duct taped eye sockets and badly broken rib cage.

The driving clouds and poor clod of frightened people burrowing in their holes, everyone hanging like lanterns in the dark, the sodden swamp freshly planted with hateful hearts, dried blood and bruised tongues protruding, the murderers and rape, the prisons of malevolent mothers and the rancid, the generic leprosy of expensive lawyers, the gulch of empathy, how they calm in the soil like putrid water in a sewer drain, spread out like a cross, etched words in the dirt, there is no beauty in it, it's the dead and dying child of God, it fuckin stinks, people would eat their newborns if they could, they would chew the fat and devour the pulp, it's ugly and never-ending, it's the world with zero contrast and shaded blinds, it looks like the morning light that lay over a field, it's heaven, you should see it.

Saturday, June 4, 2011

Bye Thrash

People in the South used to drown kittens in metal buckets, you'd see it in the creeks, the wagon wheel ruts, broken rocks and strewn candle-thistle, the pine groves and wasted remnants of a barn. Snarling boards and brutal agony in each tanned nail, Churches outnumber the cows , eloquently decayed steeples and shack-rust chocked full of spider-webs, the silken threads and lemony fingertip of God digging holes in the red clay.

Sun blasts over the blood maples, the slender roads and mildew plantations, the majestic oaks and battalions of water-bugs, water moccasins, the rotten stumps and fungus barrows, It's another Armagh, frost fallen pastures and simple work, dank lumber rooms and leaden ink jars, black root and briar chewed fences, armies of slick crows on patrol, funny flowered accents and dirty patched clothes, farmed windmills and poetic ponds polluted with tiger-lily.

Arms open, acres of bleached bones in the snow, you die old and suffocated in amber-orange cedar caskets, liver spots and curled from poisoned kidneys, murky as well-water and quiet as the chalk-graves, a reactionary, God is reactionary, fearful and angry winds blowing, buggy-tornadoes and that city of shopping carts, the awful city of sub-mentals, robotic clones and plastic money, velvet inch worms and parasitic plagues, thank God, you literally thank God you live far away, far from the falling bombs and erotic destruction, the medical factories of locked doors and unbearable suffering in the streets, the crawling bodies naked with disease, raw leprosy and vermin, the hungry and poor, the wealthy and lascivious soldiers, wide-eyed and ready to dazzle, the bewilderment of fools and one-legged animals; the dead souls out here in the middle of nowhere, watching the stars crash into the lake, the white yarn in the sticks, a remote paradise of homemade jelly and sweet trees swarmed with magnetic bees, blankets of kelp-weed, stitched lacerations and a worn rail-cap, worn hands and worn boots, muddy and left on the porch, the tire swings,  the drowsy drawing room and classical books on the wood table, music from every room, the sincere and playful array of a stark piano, your blissful accent, you talk like a well-versed poem, a rare smile like childlike authors full of innocent harmony and an unthinkable beauty.

Saturday, May 21, 2011

Bye Boogyman

My Boogaardian hero fell like a giant oak, it shook the ground. People are saints, pure and perfect creatures, they judge so effortlessly, their stones are smooth, nothing is sharp or rusted like blades, they wipe the fat from their oily mouths and lick their lips with a hundred purple tongues. Joys and shouts as the animals run for cover, more wars and violence, demons in the sunlight, raped orchards and destroyed contrast.

There are no thieves, no false prophets and liars, no addicts and sexual deviants, people are crystal clear and made of the black ice in heaven, friends stab you in the front, you can see for miles, each melting plateau stretched out like the arms of a chestnut, no sinister secrets, no remorse and pine bark, truly perfect blots of pristine coins intoxicated by the slick residue of yellow jacket sap. 

There are no authors left, cold in the grave as packets of sleet glisten the wet snow, redundant fingers in the frost scratching out words, ageless paper and tarnished crowns, my barren canvas of swaying and circling wintry vultures, each bald with ugly ebony feathers, jet black and abrasive, this snow-crater in my chest, this empty, lonely, hollow hole dissolved in tears.

Tuesday, May 17, 2011

rusted gulch

The flying flowers have flown away, drenched bus stops in the rain. The curled benches and haggard elderly, bruised faces and red puddles washing away the pavement, knavish yellow birds and parachutes of incandescent soldiers tangled in telephone wires, leathery parcels and pensive letters left to decay like blanch vegetables. A pristine breeze of ebony lies and brutal tyranny, bleak treachery and nuclear parasites, blind moles posing as people chained to bed posts. I remember when the last box fan rattled to an end, the motor clicking and clanking in the twilight of a death-dance, the smell of burnt wires, that viciously sharp smell of fried electronics. I'm smothered by robotic arms, irradiated cans of putrid tomato, ghastly oceans of drowned fireflies, my effervescent lanterns blinking like berserk appliances on the oily water.

I feel like the hanging cobwebs in this cryptic bunker, milky skin and fragile holes in my heart. I want to step out into the gloomy silence, a gray ending, unbearably melancholy, the quiet hum and gum on the sidewalk, my sweet unbroken quiet, it's like a blissful pasture, a drowsy field of obscure blooms before a war, the skeletal ruins of poison oak-side plantations and bitter pitchers of amber marrow, magnificent pools of burnt mercury and lonely ribbons of sad falling light , quiescent and laying still like dead leaves in a rubbish ditch, a remote body farm of newly sprouting silken stalks, a faded cheek, the eyes skyward and emitting lavender veils and rustic vapors of smoky topaz.

Sunday, April 24, 2011

insect orchids

Undulated movement, dilated spirals of stem-wire, I feel like I contaminate things, the lettuce slick with ghost fingerprints and untroubled paint-pixels. Frost on the allergic tomatoes, schizophrenic woolen writing, parallel bus stops and onyx benches drenched with breathless rain as an upside down heaven drops flowering bombs, an unbroken calm and destroyed beauty, impaled martyr's perishing like petals embedded in a lattice lath, criss-crossed frame-work of hot woven-wax.

Unhappy unfiltered outlines, navigating each labyrinth and fogged artery, A giant leopard moth cloudy with charcoal bristles, the ant-hills scattered with weathered scorched maps and gentle creatures on the stark walk-way, volcanic lava thistle and black snails on the chalk-clay.

Curled floor gardens sprinkled with damp dead leaves, bitter-brown dead coins and bronze dead cedar stumps stuck with ink-pen orchids, daytime orchids and yellow-gray orchid pollen polluting the canary canals and avenues of arch-way art-work structures, orchids flat with emotion, teary orchids, tired orchids, old archaic antique ugly expressionless orchids, all these rotten falling orchids, the dream-life of drowsy orchids.

Friday, April 22, 2011

painting rancor

I'm sick of color, stolen grays into another view, each horizon burnt and bleeding into the kaleidoscope iris of every liar, fraudulent cheeks of slithering snakes and venomous milk cartons, bowls of split oranges and toxic religions, lavender licorice and lackadaisical leopards, red and yellow candy wrappers, most of you suck nothing but giant purple dick. Black and blue gums, icy throats swallowing your fathers, your friends and co-workers when your husbands aren't around, bashful tyranny, blushing brittle bellied brides and embittered fingers battered by the morning bombs exploding all over this robotic blog, my balls on your chin.

I want to paint all of you, your mixtures and significant others, your cindering scape's of bright-white golden sun-showers and contaminated cathedrals, heart-stems skyward, I want mine to break the ceiling, rubbed raw and lemony trails splattered with safari sway-petals, this elephant trunk hard as jail bars and enough for all of you, your abrupt faces dripping with loveless delight, your vicious pointing and hypocritical gestures from afar, glued african violets blooming like praying flowerbeds after a tornadic rain spike, bullet holes, my sadness smothering you with my sticky animus, filling your open holes, my sweet nectar and veiled ribbons of swan-like rain sang.

Thursday, April 21, 2011

cohiba

Tendrils of smoke, gray haze communist Cohiba, this old rotten porch facing south, pristine breeze and flying flowers, speckled orange and heavily dotted with diamond dust, the molding stables and pasture drench, the sweet fat rolling hills, deeply bruised green and shades of pine bark, blankets of burnt red clay, a dour briar fence and tired tire garden full of banana spiders, broken barn windows and a good news bee all go sailing by, yellow and black, poison factory.

Sirens and it's like the city, endless array of bombed buildings and melted sunlight orchards of people, vast colors and somber faces, crude languages and bright fabric, funerals of busted grapes, sky-line ramparts of apple barrels, gawking dragons and chrome shrapnel, a wreck on the bridge, they get tangled in the rails, coins on the asphalt, pieces of glass from the detached windshields glitter like a soothsayer's teeth, the boats look like sugary gum drops skipping like frogs on the water. The puddles are like slimy lily pads, buzzing helicopters and more sirens, mosquito's swollen with blood, the medical parachutes and frenzied yelp of the dying embers, the ash is well over two inches, that's a sign of an exquisite cigar, a premium that costs about 20 dollars a stick thanks to that little czarist island called Cuba.

Tuesday, April 19, 2011

sunkist orange soda

I like living under an irradiated sky, these grotesque bodies all bobbing like weird buoys in my cove, the scavengers collect the eyes and ink-stained fingertips of a playful tsunami. Floating fish and sunken bridges, no more speeding metallic boxes encased in glass, I miss the car wrecks that changed my life, windshields exploding and people spilled onto a busy highway. The buildings watched like sad sentinels casting shadows like the light through a fence in a prison yard. It was certainly memorable to see them continually ran over, bending and shaping into strange spirals, arms and legs torn and strewn like broken sticks, an empty torso, a dazzle and perfectly executed pirouette, a crimson ribbon from a ballerina, a small shoe with a foot in it.

I like war, sniper shots from a thousand yards away, splitting heads like Taras Bulba, I don't mind open caskets, glowing children and one-legged dogs crawling to the middle of the freeway, I have slept there, the cement is warm at night, I'm glad real authors kill themselves, there is art in that, a shotgun for Hemingway, cocaine for Dostoevsky and his hemorrhaging lung, Nietzsche's marijuana fields and Kafka's fuck toys, Gogol's schizophrenic sunlight and the slow waltz of Cormac's necrophilia, Poe's malformed water head and blankets of ice for Jim Carroll and the hungry hole in his arm where all his money went.

Worries and fraudulent friends, the faggotry of Shakespeare and baroque romance, there is beauty in having a cold in your soul that never goes away, my junkie brother slamming his head against a brick wall, shooting smack and how the insecure female cactus glow golden with the dusk, the bluff and the bloated hive of niggers, boy is heroin, girl is coke and tina is methamphetamine, what you want is chinese white, 10 dollars a bag and 3 dollars a rig, if it's pure, Wally says you just pull water through the plunger, shake it and it's good to go, it's good to pop, it's heaven to mainline as the flashing lights and sirens start to reverberate your infected head-space, the slick and slimy wet asphalt of a greasy gas station parking lot, the streaming squadrons of cockroaches and gum on the sidewalk.

Too bad we haven't had a plague in a few days, a rupturing mountain and valley of living dolls, only illegal mexicans chocked full of green cigars, they are called candela's in an aficionado's world of bleak smoke and street-walking insanity, drug mules and chrome rims, police brutality and copper thieves. I'm hopeful there'll be a rampage shooting , assassinated kittens and lust for money, more gang violence and robberies, toothless meth addicts stealing commercial air-condition units, they work hard enough to be compensated, someone should tell them having an actual job is almost the same thing as the 9 hrs. it takes to surgically remove the bolts and wire. My aged work boots and dying flowers on the porch, I'm glad we are all spiders in a glass jar, we're being poisoned, racist tongues and how absolutely nothing bothers me now, newborn lightly blue babies in the dumpster, motherless, fatherless blots of rotten pumice, whores and john's in dirty bathroom stalls, gut-shot deer and cisterns of black syrup, I like it, I'm glad the world is ending and I finally found love at the end of it, I'm happy, let it end.

Friday, April 15, 2011

sap

Slow going like a tangled inch worm in this vital mushroom patch, an upside down ceiling of brightly colored fungus and jet black soil, oblong unhappy umbrella's and verily dotted yellow shoulder blades. Broken twigs and slimy insect torso's, a freshly dropped caramel candy shell, a discarded wrapper strewn among the living floor of this prismatic forest, my pale green abdomen is apple dappled with tender wood shavings and bitter debris. Chalky taste in my microscopic mouth, curls of goblin fingered blood-roots and browned rotten lettuce, my insecure oval eyes setting like sun-crickets, particles of birch sand and a battalion of legionnaire ants guard a gutted tree stump.

Tiny crimson armies and squadrons of angry black flies, the severed sticky strings of royal cone snails and abstract pitcher plants, hanging nightfall orchids and the flowered contrast of strawberry bruises below my insomniac pollen, my darkened onyx horizon and orange halo hue exploding in thick gushes of walking antennae and bare dirt littered with speckled lime moth. The rain is in heavy cold droplets, shattered cobalt spheres in this woodland spring-globe, early morning thunder and the unbroken calm of ink spiders. I crawl over the endless scalpels and remaining sharp bristles of destroyed paint brushes, I methodically navigate the punctured membranes of the chewed ghost petals; the crisp charred branches and burnt fence nails until my thin velvet belly is ruptured from the carnivorous traps and my precious inside amber liquid pours out in ugly clotting gluts on the dank leaves and unloved maze of wet pine straw.

Monday, April 11, 2011

sweet-gum

I watch the slopes, each stone-slate roof grayed with heavy blotted rain. The fantastically poor cathedrals and fountains of bare-bright wishes, coppery reflections and busted grapes. Eternal tire gardens and the endless stream of flags on the bridge.

This movement, deeply penetrating as the bombs start to fall, camouflaged whores on patrol, the dirty knees and embracing foam, lusterless glimmers on the gummy sidewalk, I like to watch the buildings topple, the rainbow-ed umbrella's shrouding thoughtful rubble and sincere ruin of an irradiated glassy goblet of wasteland breathing, crushed glass and shards of bitter nectar; completely precious and untroubled joys spark timber colored fields and teeth gnashing apple orchards, open legged cemeteries and squadrons of playful fireflies, they look like tiny flying flashlights on the blink, the last remnants of a dying battery, microscopic beserk appliances in a funnel cloud of yellowed festive lights.

My brittle pale arms spread out like a cross, this infected demons delight, a cleansing bloodstain on my chest, the torn fabric and grim imprint of my detached soul, the lifeless and unwanted ghosts, kissed twice. I run my mangled hand over the rafters, I chew each petal and scribble dashes of mournful words on smooth scraps of papery birch.

I feel like rusty metal buckets of soaking leaves under the sweet-gum trees, a tired author bedraggled and enduring loneliness as the clouds bludgeon and bruise badly this sickly skyline masterpiece of torment and waiting.

Sour yellow lemons and peppermint tea, Sunday kittens and colorless, motherless, fatherless blots of disastrous pumice and acorns scattered like aging kidney stones, tangles of English ivy and red-orange moss ablaze.

Pine straw and flaps of skinned emerald metallic bark, wet cedar shavings and rotten stables blest with filtered light, gluttonous puddles littered with the stolen pennies from heaven, fat tank battalions of army turtles and paint horses frozen in still-life poses, discarded portraits and timeless illusions, subtle farm animals and passive pillows of storied shoreline rock.

The agonized creak of a forgotten porch swing sounds like an old boat tied to a southern dock, a venetian carousel and more vibrant horses running like thunder, the leaden gallop in loud terrible gushes, the feverish rush and sway of unfolding arms, the thinly etched black lines on the stormy horizon, the slender sleek sweet curl of you and with my watchful wild eyes I stare at the melancholy telephone wires.

Sunday, April 10, 2011

shan

I have a mechanical smile, flowering cherry-lime trees and lavender ink balm slithering in slick envelopes like a lepers skin. Crushed pebbles and oily anecdotes. So much has changed, no longer a narcotic sky overhead blazing and blistering the living countryside with blueberry OxyContin clouds and consumptive heroin addicts in the drench. Strewn like cruel sticks, unwanted and unkissed unloved skeletons, wild eyes, cow eyes gushing and opalescent cranberry canals, tomato torches lit and burnt into ordinary eyes, sad eyes and caustic sunlight solarium's, a smooth  metal rail and hanging bowls of milk plants, Persian Brown orchid spiders and the slow waltz of you and I, your warm wetness and trembles of fingers unlocked, your precious lips and melodic voice, the faded green tile and how the antique wood on the balcony curls badly with the rain, curls like your toes and humming mouth, the murmurs of bleak hospital hallways; oceans of toxic clorox through the cracked windows and inside orchards, the vegetable gardens and sodden mahogany writing tablet, the pristine searing packages and dampening dust ; yet another lifeless pen taken from a glass jar, miles and miles of strawberry smiles, writing again like a broken heart, broken junky teeth and broken breathing, how I drizzle on this beloved balustrade, how I continually make bleary ink blots your pretty eyes will read, you have pretty eyes, the most beautiful eyes.