Morning, A crystallized sky-line, glossy rivers and the shivering slumber of icy-pine needles by the lake. The inky tar and black blots of boat-oil, patchwork canals of fence mazes and the dull hum of tired farm machinery, old ugly metal buckets of porch-nails and beautiful relics of rust. 

The town, a stolen raft, flickering street lamps and ghosts, the wooden ladders, torch lanterns and death rattle of brittle winter leaves. Barren cold sidewalks and the lost umbrella of a coin-fountain thief. A burlap knapsack and window clover trinket, a Chimney Swift blends and blankets the crumbling spire, the acerbic wound of sadness and neglect, life and death. 

Daybreak to day end, empty silo, gunshot tin and the scarred shrapnel holes look like the strange black eyes of a veiled Cobra Lily, the dozing paint horses in the pasture, the unkempt tangle of British-Indian copse, a kudzu shrouded wheelbarrow full of rotten timber frames, a musky mausoleum of twigs and scattered bones of broken limbs, an archaic scythe buried by ageless red dirt and shore-clay, shy Castle-Oaks gazing about from the faint tendrils of fading sunlight, burnt-sepia portraits of flawless fake stage-actors and books and verses neatly encased in gospel-twine, the silent library of decapitated statue's and poorly written manuscripts concerning the political theater and scent of wet cedar, the kitchen of arbitrary blacks and pale-checkered floor, a small milk puddle from a broken glass pitcher.

City of silken madness, melting nightfall and sunrise rain, a cylinder of patterns and pious and pallid angels, the scape and nape of your neck, French architecture and caustic rogue pavement, white-pearlescent stone and charred marble rock, the sinister guillotine and smooth barely bruised texture of the brick bulwark, the bleak prison on the hill, the bastion of classical loneliness and aged cinematic veranda. The vacant hotel and embassy knots of exposed blood-roots and blue-demure, a battalion with no tanks taking rest, makeshift army-cots and estranged tents, sewing angry fabric for old holes, green soldiers smoking cigarettes and talking loudly, a rasp fist-fight and barbaric yawp from an inquisitive citizen-gnome. The Capital Bank and police on patrol, a lone drunk with a bottle of urine as his only companion, a memory of a dog, long gone, dead and buried in a cemetery that is no longer there, lavender petals on the water, an orchard of frozen flowers and permanent ache in the hollow bark of his open chest.

snowfall

Everyone speaks with an echo, infernal dying light and sad embers of painted freezing flames, the slick snow-wet brickwork ; patchwork pastels and bright white wintry mixture, the baleful bliss and bales of pallid cigar smoke drifting through the battered cold clouds.

Hands down, holding sexual gazes, an arabesque pirouette, punctured coke cans and rushing icy plateau's, meek favorable fawns dozing in the meadow. An erotic curve and playful bite mark on your inner thigh, bit lip, window closed, day-break; warm-hot breath on the steel blue-blinds, iris cobalt of laconic ambulant shadows kissing and humming softly.

Tracing fingertips, veiled low-moaning movement manifesto, occulent orchid drones, perpetually violent sun-light in violet shock-waves, sleet-showers of pensive poetic skin, hard thick covers in an arctic embrace of vicious cinders, a romantic snow-globe of frozen rain, the slow rails and shotgun mortuary's of the drowsy city plantation outside.

Inside, lavender and licorice, charming faux wax on waxen wooden floors, a gentle tender smooth salient and succulent caramel ass on my bed, an intoxicated heaven, kiss your neck, to the center, tongue circling the darker color, yummy areola's and the other, the dreary snowflakes start to fall like silver ashen petals, triple opaque hue portraits of passive pearlesque busted plates, you are pretty and purring like resplendent raspberries in a frost gulch, soft glacier blooms and gelid mist over the sleepy street-lamps.

midas touch

I feel like I was bitten by a prostitute, a rust colored prosthetic limb razing my dead skin. Old golden holes and window eyes for window dummies, all neatly dressed ebony mannequins along a sidewalk of chewing gum.

Squared apartment complex, a labyrinth of skinny-fat whores, unsophisticated money and coin. Gaze and wasted stems, sporadic discarded wrappers, small delicate frames of plastique human-explosives, candy and sugar coated arteries under the robes and veils of clothes and chemical smells.

Traffic-Legionary's and the terse stampede of caramel gluts for the gluttons, the oil thieves and starving horrors behind the dumpster. A black deep onyx cigar box, unbelievable smooth texture, the slender curve and ripple of magnetic, poetic skin, brutal teeth marks, demons, a bludgeoned Afghan slick with rain, sickly story birds and blue bruises under her eyes.

syria

Fucked up ruinous portraits, all ivory blasted hollow to fit in these ceramic mosaics. Black caskets and hezbollah yellow, terroristic birds on a wire with caustic echo's.

It shall be for flocks, so sayeth the Lord. Skittish skinny arms, sunlight orchids, bereaved elms bent like filtered light through a battered window blind, it's bearable, these god-less, goddamn exploding barrels of burnt flowers.

A blustery winter mixture of snow and ice; an aftermath debris blood red and holding their dead children like blankets of starved tree limbs, flags and burlap sacks, they look like little skeletal cages, silver tracks in the snow, the birds look like tiny plague doctors or nigger priests perched on the curved rib of a makeshift pulpit.

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.