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.

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.