Lakeshore Mall

Spitting rain on the Venetian carousel, portrait of Lakeshore, the slim avenues and flooded canals, automatic pistols and armed flower gardens, illegal children playing with empty high-caliber shell-casings all littered among the rubbish dump, the decapitated tree-stumps and scarred narrow vein of the resplendent and beautiful heart of slums.

I would pen badly written notes about robotic Booksamillion cashier girls, the brooding change-bucket on the counter, the round doll eyes and intoxication of crowded Persian-Brown aisles. A brisk guffaw of an ebony robust harrier, the insecure drone of elevator musak, elderly grenade attacks, navigating their land-yacht-tanks and overflowing buggies on the cracked sidewalks and stampeding ramparts, the broken Baptist church bells in the background, orthodox Asian cathedrals, the deaf, dumb and blind mannequins all slick with carrot oil on the plastic cheek-bones and olive tree t-shirts, only $19.99. Light blue Puma exterior, dancing, laughing raven-haired lepers, pretending to be pretty like photogenic rainbows, concealed weapons and berserk appliances posing as inmates in an asylum, the howling, ravenous non-fiction section, a palace of lavish novella-drapes and standing water puddles, it's more like wading through manure. Blooms and carnivals of knife-attacks, explosive sky-orchids, the mechanical, skeletal elbow of a ditch-crane at a recycle plant, the happily buried garbage mounds, the stalks of torn aluminum sheets, the coppery feathers and scalped tin cans in the red dirt, the slumber of the soft, old clay.

Gogol

Silent and strange green-eyed slums, busted bottles and stolen phones, the intricate cigar mazo of bundled train tracks and cement fissures of pink blots of sugary chewing gum, gum-balls and gum-drops, littered candy wrappers on the broken rocks of sad coral-pumice, sharp words puncturing sky-bridges of shy-trash and playful sand melting into the flood of brown veins, almond shoes and the stark-naked and eyeless cataclysm of opalescent pebbles, pretty Spanish girls with exotic names and the like.

I'm a fool, terminally ill with Scarlet fever, fantastically poor with no editor, no murky publicist or assistant to assassinate my damaged art, writing in liquid narcotics on velvet napkins, picking up lost change and tin-shack wishes from imaginary wells and dry-leaves gushing with overflowing gutters of rain-water and vicious debris. Fountains of burnt copper and I'm abrasive and repulsive to the general population all quiet and all sitting like black birds on a bronze twig, the successful cattle and their fancy suits of gold; I'm an eye-sore ink blot on a metal bench, a forgotten glass moloko vellocet-cup, a poorly crayon-scribbled asterisk, childish and delusional, a tree stump suffocated with legionary ants, howling like a ghoul, completely mad and raving with intensive cholera, light beard and Irish-punched eyes, an abstract style and with mangled and uneducated filthy paws pointing and waving at everything but my sunken and gut-shot chest, my self-inflicted aspirin tablets and unbearable headache.

I write like an infected hospital hallway, blanched clorox and gallons of bleach and sour pine sol masking the undeniable aroma of servile death, a sickly skeleton courier and contagion carrier, an immune typhoid blogger making slanted dashes and cursive lines in thick black plumes as I churn it out like some tired old factory that makes Chinese paint, still sputtering and pouring harmful toxic fumes into the air in which we breathe, the air that is alive because of me and this worthless author's pen. The brazen outline and perimeter of perfumed gasoline, trails of painted flames, expensive kerosene eyes flickering in the somber orange gaze of a low battery-powered flashlight, the stalking shadows and dancing parachuter's, parachutes of ribbons and sleek twine, unraveling and curling spirals of executed notebook paper, I'd rather burn it all like Gogol to be honest, it would be a better day for me. 

I feel like a bedraggled dog and nearly dead novelist on the side of the road, the darkness and promise of diamond reflections in the hot asphalt, some former authoritarian text-mongrel crawling and yelping with severe arthritis as the cruel and vengeful world sails softly by in silent gallops of metallic glimmers and flashes of new chrome. My forked ribs and mangy coat of black grease and slow agony, dragging myself to an abrupt end that never comes, just another road, curled like a snake, the arched back of a salt-snail, another torturous mile of bad blisters and gasping orchard fences strangled with poison ivy, the circle and gawk of angry buzzards, the squadrons of rueful bloat-flies at the nape of my old battle-weary and worn leather collar, you can barely read my name on it as if anyone ever said it aloud, anyway. I don't even remember what it sounds like.

box of montecristo

I do feel like a happy-sad, bulk of a man. Going ballistic on this electronic keyboard at 3 in the morning, nuclear glowing and irradiated onyx keys, my petite girlfriend asleep like a little island of perfumed petals, prettier than snow-fields of Poe's volcanic hearts, half naked in a frozen waterfall of multi-colored blankets, her silken movement and a tight yellow panty line, flash of my green shirt that has bunched up above her belly button, a miniature orange; white-striped sock, a smooth cheek and pouty lip, face like a poem, hair on my pillow, a blurry, drowsy dreamy Dali-esque landscape from another room, the howling mad Kafka influenza in my scope on a desktop plateau of chart-work, art-work propaganda, diagrams and maps, the contrast of my baleful egg-shell white and her small, milky caramel lake, almond and coffee colored sleep-scape.

Fragmented and detached laconic lullabies. I'm barbaric, a beast of war and exploding safari sunsets, I love African elephant trails and mechanical helicopter gun-ships, war and famine; bubonic plagues and the rotting pastures of discarded camouflaged child-soldiers, all torn badly and laying there like broken adolescent statues with lavender thistle-weeds growing through the charred turrets, a boot with a foot in it. Puddles and empty bullet casings, shells and beaten tanks.

She is never prettier than she is within the foggy dew of an early Georgian morning, red state, the steel-blue cold outside and warm hues of the interior sun-light solarium. Blackwood ebony steps leading to an aged slave-vineyard of dried and dying grapes, forgotten structures of appealing scented cedar and an unfinished and unblemished mahogany timber sloping arch; slate-stone infusion, the smooth stone-bridge and cobble-stone walk-way, my rustic cigar factory in the labyrinthine twilight, the small globes and goblets of frost or freezing rain on the grass-shield, the wind-shield slender contour and small toes, extracted venom, violets and violent innuendo's. An intoxicated and lurid picture, drunk and virid plants in a meadow, the late stages of my endless black vomit.

To the north an ugly dock sinking into a syrupy swamp of fireflies and ascending cobra-lily frozen in still life, lifeless cataracts, the last remnants of summer and old crypts, busted military caskets, the kissing dust through the keyhole chasm, the cellar door ajar and shelves of classic literature look like shivering stale corpses in a cell-morgue, the walls of afghan fabric and poetry lined framework cathedrals, our vast collection of posthumously published authors and robust barrels once brim with expensive cognac..now a faint memory of Hemingway cigars, a chewed Patel and enclosed Partagas sabroso, magnificent maduro Montecristo's and a rare Fuente shark fin masterpiece, perfecto extraordinaries, all the things I used to like. The priceless sticks that blacken my lungs, bludgeon my liver and artery artichokes, I like to watch the virulent autumn leaves fall from the basement window, the harmful haze of coiled cobalt smoke, a room heavily leaden with moving-clouds, paralyzed orchids, stylized stitching and surgical incisions, the sad red splotches of blood-good Japanese maples, the somber waltz of illusions and pretty tableau vivants, wealth and tranquility, her ample ass and smooth ribcage; swollen rivers outside an ocean of quiet gray fields blotted with permanent rain, the pale vapors drifting through the endless veils of glossy dead eyes.

claro casket

Busting bricks off the overpass, the freeway snipers and dim glow of an orange sunset. I miss El Paso, the caramel rivers of Mexican Caravan's, petite taco vendors and inky Juárez faded blue tattoo's. Child-Asesino's with automatic rifles, the Sinaloa Cartel and their fancy diamond-etched marijuana belt buckles, the Zeta's and their pearled bathtubs full of dismembered officials, barrels of pack-mule cocaine.

I always wanted to be a shadow of death in old Mexico, the clank of agonizing produce-wagons, the hordes of toothless bandito, suicidal black flies at the mouth, the lifeless brim of the biggest sombrero and gold-plated pistol, star-shaped spurs and stolen gringo ostrich boots in the dirt. A robusto cigar, A pale horse, lavish saddle, milk and honey. Dilapidated stone-dwellings, caked amber cement-mud, stray chickens and a skinny white goat tethered to a skeletal fence post. An old wooden bucket with bullet hole in it, an ocean of curious chocolate eyes,  I wanna ride past the lonesome cactus, the silhouette of dying, how it fades into the horizon, the pallid haze at dusk, the somber glint of light flashing from a silver medallion, the decayed steeple of a ancient church, an ugly yellow whorehouse, the prostitutes look like dolled up scare-crows with badly painted features, one grease-stained belly about to pop with the demon seed of a gunslinger, a flat tortilla in a metal pan, the rotten stables and intrinsic poverty of intricate Aztec abodes, my laconic slope, loving trigger, the red color around you, shivers of the graves I've dug, the whispers and funerals of sorrow, light beard and gritty Stetson-Bat Masterson cowboy hat, the heavily dotted pebbles in the sand, the covered brown faces shying away and parting like the sadness of the sea.

you too have choler

Sick of this plastic bag in this fuckin' dank orchard of onyx decay, the callous worms and perfumed maggots swimming through my gutted canals. People, the living, breathing blots of toxic orchids, the heart-shaped faces of owls.

Lonely, you're all like swept clovers on the porch, the rotten mulch and sodden wood planks, raw red feet and dirty toes. Cedar chips and caramel shavings, flowered petals and rotten blooms on the ceiling, a dull ache in my chest cavity, the reflecting echo of lilac and poisoned dandelions in the breeze. Black soil on the rough texture of blistered burlap, silver duct tape on my severed hands, sweltering droplets of pristine moisture, a river of florid marrow in this hefty garbage bag, yellow drawstring, outside an unspeakable-untouched beauty, deathless and blanched with milk thistle.

saw-grass

Among the flowered dirt roads, the blissful wrecks, the broken windshields and metallic tunnels, miles of wire and copper cables. A sandy dashboard fissure, tablets for a headache, gray skin clouds on an operating table. Distraught coins on the floorboard, blemished gasoline and camouflaged mantis, they look like they are still praying to God, bad posture, bent and dead.

The sodden mulch gardens bloated from the petroleum-rain, the untroubled engine cows, straying, nameless orchids in a black ballet of pallid art. Wet bark chips and cedar shavings, the headlight-lizards shrink from the sight of everyone. Splintered limbs and door-frames lay like barbaric amputations, the bitter-ink trees and taciturn pasture, a skeletal farmer building a fence, wooden heart in a bucket, liquor-holes in the gut. 

the baboon

Strawberry patches of perfume plants, pinwheel cushions of yellowed dart frogs, a Guyanese breeze of dense green jungles and gory choir of piranha teeth, makeshift camouflage beret's, duct taped machine guns and badly broken bamboo cages overflowing with vicious wild orchids and a fat oil-black military officer smoking a fine barrel-aged cigar in the rain.

Grave-side, grave-yard, coils of skeletal grave-robbers digging in the wagon-wheel ruts, balmy jail bars, formaldehyde breathing berry-eyed circus tent, a vast array of salted candy voodoo sticks, slit cardboard tickets and slimy opaque gates stuck with a child's chewing gum statue, the sunlight aghast, sun-swept silver shadows on the yard of a Haitian prison. Ligero leaf, A fancy tobacco Cadillac with no gasoline, a wedding dress for a corpse, a bokor's zombie doll and needle pricked arid chest of an obese puffer fish, alice blue curtains from a quiet château, a hospital chalet of convalescent chapels, dilapidated traffic lights turning black.

A carnival of untied shoe-laces, A mummified midnight vendor with ugly exposed draugr veins in the neck, a sweat ring on the stitched collar, inky flat fingernails crowned with callus, copper vikings posed in clay, a mansion of brightly colored prizes, antique jam-jars of entombed goldfish and a bursting target made of flames, a small hoop for a miniature horse, walls of shrunken heads and shy, slanted faces made of sickly caramel apples, dripping plastic daedric artifacts, delightful rosary beads and a sad balloon mosaic, shards of stolen ocean glass, pools of marauding church-ants suffocated in orange syrup, amber-decayed bourbon caskets and floods of pretty wooden girls littered with bubonic beauty, the blistering bare feet scorched with volcanic hearts and baleful smiles of blooming cruelty, the burnt, charred bones in the honey suckle sand, barbaric shouts of soldiers and the rattle and ring of rusty shackles, the shore-line cocaine boats, tin-shack paradise of soothing sturdy chains, the scaled slums and coagulated blood-acres of caustic white-sweetness, a submarine of cocoa, the sweltering canal scent of succulent sap, fields of sugar-cane, the sugar-sky cans of corn whiskey from the sun-house, sun-shine when we die.

macanudo hyde park

Candy apples embedded in the ugly dank brown carpet, this lavish hotel is a vast expanding red slum of intoxicated patrons, dolled prostitutes and coins on the bedsheets. Attractive lepers and storm bugs under the pillow.

Shotgun on a nightstand, my heavy revolver at my hip, another pistol near the sink, smaller caliber for concealing , the slow drip of a busted bronze faucet, a droplet of blood, spectacles askew, my overcoat and belt hanging on the doorknob. The lobby of funny hats, elegant costumes and pretty feminine accents, servers and errands, unyielding array of candles, a remote balustrade of chandeliers and electrical sparks from a camera flash.

 The spine-like staircases navigating the velvet air like charmed snakes, open and closing onyx-framed doors, an obese priest, ancient mechanical elevators cast golden with strange eyes, the magnificent ball room, a perfumed ceiling of flowers, somber slender statues and lonesome bells ringing, room 104, a silver key rolled gently in my fingers, heart softly pounding, amber mahogany cabinets locked, pill box pine-tree heaven, a flourishing plantation of cotton and florid slaves howling under the whip of torture, moon crickets singing, reflecting waters, the angry hum and rattle of a T-model, liquor barrels on the back of a bedraggled truck shift and stumble with the rocks in the dirt road. Sunrise, beauty could be love, My fancy woolen suit, vegetable tanned John Lobb's, roughly six hundred and sixty dollars in my wallet. An etched note sewn into my chest, your name, your face, your ink dissolved in tears.

soul of a spider

Light rain, 54 degrees. I stare at the melancholy gutted walls, the gentle slope awning of a dilapidated chapel, a flowered courtyard littered with shards of ebony. Motherless tiles and ugly green linoleum. A box of pristine thumb-nails and burnt paint canister. A makeshift morgue, aged chrome and dusted stainless-steel shelves, abnormal and abstract instruments, question marks within the faded marble tile, a cruelly cold coal chamber for burning the swollen-elephantine bodies plagued with cloudy influenza and the red masque of bloated death. Black minnow buckets for the putrid fluid, pans of rancid rat poison, the watchful eyes in the cracks, crumbs of French bread, brittle sticks festering like wood hearts infected by frost spiders. The Bubonic wing, the typhoid scripture and gospel of tuberculosis, the dying embers of Russian consumption, the cholera colored wood floors curled from the constant drizzle of early morning rain, a diseased novella on a windowsill.

Sparks on the bruised horizon, a low purple abrasion bludgeoned with crimson arrows and yellow jaundice scaffolds. Cinnamon lost eyes, a child's melted toy in the clay, the sad hallways of a state hospital, psychiatric ward. The exposed frames, a waspish food plate badly bending from weather damage, a tarnished coin in a soft drink slot, the holes in the door and inside marrow, bitter rust and horrible fungus. Icy chemical stalagmites, an artery of rolling carts and inky medicine, an asylum atop a rolling cobalt hill, a sleepy view of the crumbling statue through the fingertips of a broken window. Busted globes of glass, abandoned staircases and vicious debris sick with pine-salt and poison ivy. A drowsy galaxy of waxen webs and silky strewn candy wrappers. The orange fibers of asbestos, the malformed insulation and remnants of a corroded metal patient bed, haunted hospitals howling with tortured ghosts, the little angels in malodorous burlap bags, small piles of blood-cloth in a rotten coffin, the miniature skeletons scattered in casket-puzzles of bone and brine, strangely contorted silhouettes walking and whispering, the hurtful smiles dancing wildly before my rabid eyes, endless hallways and somber shadows, tattered veils of forgotten curtains, the hollowed blackness among the falling diamond dust.