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.

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.