..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.
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
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.
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.
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.
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.
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