Bye Thrash

People in the South used to drown kittens in metal buckets, you'd see it in the creeks, the wagon wheel ruts, broken rocks and strewn candle-thistle, the pine groves and wasted remnants of a barn. Snarling boards and brutal agony in each tanned nail, Churches outnumber the cows , eloquently decayed steeples and shack-rust chocked full of spider-webs, the silken threads and lemony fingertip of God digging holes in the red clay.

Sun blasts over the blood maples, the slender roads and mildew plantations, the majestic oaks and battalions of water-bugs, water moccasins, the rotten stumps and fungus barrows, It's another Armagh, frost fallen pastures and simple work, dank lumber rooms and leaden ink jars, black root and briar chewed fences, armies of slick crows on patrol, funny flowered accents and dirty patched clothes, farmed windmills and poetic ponds polluted with tiger-lily.

Arms open, acres of bleached bones in the snow, you die old and suffocated in amber-orange cedar caskets, liver spots and curled from poisoned kidneys, murky as well-water and quiet as the chalk-graves, a reactionary, God is reactionary, fearful and angry winds blowing, buggy-tornadoes and that city of shopping carts, the awful city of sub-mentals, robotic clones and plastic money, velvet inch worms and parasitic plagues, thank God, you literally thank God you live far away, far from the falling bombs and erotic destruction, the medical factories of locked doors and unbearable suffering in the streets, the crawling bodies naked with disease, raw leprosy and vermin, the hungry and poor, the wealthy and lascivious soldiers, wide-eyed and ready to dazzle, the bewilderment of fools and one-legged animals; the dead souls out here in the middle of nowhere, watching the stars crash into the lake, the white yarn in the sticks, a remote paradise of homemade jelly and sweet trees swarmed with magnetic bees, blankets of kelp-weed, stitched lacerations and a worn rail-cap, worn hands and worn boots, muddy and left on the porch, the tire swings,  the drowsy drawing room and classical books on the wood table, music from every room, the sincere and playful array of a stark piano, your blissful accent, you talk like a well-versed poem, a rare smile like childlike authors full of innocent harmony and an unthinkable beauty.

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.

insect orchids

Undulated movement, dilated spirals of stem-wire, I feel like I contaminate things, the lettuce slick with ghost fingerprints and untroubled paint-pixels. Frost on the allergic tomatoes, schizophrenic woolen writing, parallel bus stops and onyx benches drenched with breathless rain as an upside down heaven drops flowering bombs, an unbroken calm and destroyed beauty, impaled martyr's perishing like petals embedded in a lattice lath, criss-crossed frame-work of hot woven-wax.

Unhappy unfiltered outlines, navigating each labyrinth and fogged artery, A giant leopard moth cloudy with charcoal bristles, the ant-hills scattered with weathered scorched maps and gentle creatures on the stark walk-way, volcanic lava thistle and black snails on the chalk-clay.

Curled floor gardens sprinkled with damp dead leaves, bitter-brown dead coins and bronze dead cedar stumps stuck with ink-pen orchids, daytime orchids and yellow-gray orchid pollen polluting the canary canals and avenues of arch-way art-work structures, orchids flat with emotion, teary orchids, tired orchids, old archaic antique ugly expressionless orchids, all these rotten falling orchids, the dream-life of drowsy orchids.

painting rancor

I'm sick of color, stolen grays into another view, each horizon burnt and bleeding into the kaleidoscope iris of every liar, fraudulent cheeks of slithering snakes and venomous milk cartons, bowls of split oranges and toxic religions, lavender licorice and lackadaisical leopards, red and yellow candy wrappers, most of you suck nothing but giant purple dick. Black and blue gums, icy throats swallowing your fathers, your friends and co-workers when your husbands aren't around, bashful tyranny, blushing brittle bellied brides and embittered fingers battered by the morning bombs exploding all over this robotic blog, my balls on your chin.

I want to paint all of you, your mixtures and significant others, your cindering scape's of bright-white golden sun-showers and contaminated cathedrals, heart-stems skyward, I want mine to break the ceiling, rubbed raw and lemony trails splattered with safari sway-petals, this elephant trunk hard as jail bars and enough for all of you, your abrupt faces dripping with loveless delight, your vicious pointing and hypocritical gestures from afar, glued african violets blooming like praying flowerbeds after a tornadic rain spike, bullet holes, my sadness smothering you with my sticky animus, filling your open holes, my sweet nectar and veiled ribbons of swan-like rain sang.

cohiba

Tendrils of smoke, gray haze communist Cohiba, this old rotten porch facing south, pristine breeze and flying flowers, speckled orange and heavily dotted with diamond dust, the molding stables and pasture drench, the sweet fat rolling hills, deeply bruised green and shades of pine bark, blankets of burnt red clay, a dour briar fence and tired tire garden full of banana spiders, broken barn windows and a good news bee all go sailing by, yellow and black, poison factory.

Sirens and it's like the city, endless array of bombed buildings and melted sunlight orchards of people, vast colors and somber faces, crude languages and bright fabric, funerals of busted grapes, sky-line ramparts of apple barrels, gawking dragons and chrome shrapnel, a wreck on the bridge, they get tangled in the rails, coins on the asphalt, pieces of glass from the detached windshields glitter like a soothsayer's teeth, the boats look like sugary gum drops skipping like frogs on the water. The puddles are like slimy lily pads, buzzing helicopters and more sirens, mosquito's swollen with blood, the medical parachutes and frenzied yelp of the dying embers, the ash is well over two inches, that's a sign of an exquisite cigar, a premium that costs about 20 dollars a stick thanks to that little czarist island called Cuba.

sunkist orange soda

I like living under an irradiated sky, these grotesque bodies all bobbing like weird buoys in my cove, the scavengers collect the eyes and ink-stained fingertips of a playful tsunami. Floating fish and sunken bridges, no more speeding metallic boxes encased in glass, I miss the car wrecks that changed my life, windshields exploding and people spilled onto a busy highway. The buildings watched like sad sentinels casting shadows like the light through a fence in a prison yard. It was certainly memorable to see them continually ran over, bending and shaping into strange spirals, arms and legs torn and strewn like broken sticks, an empty torso, a dazzle and perfectly executed pirouette, a crimson ribbon from a ballerina, a small shoe with a foot in it.

I like war, sniper shots from a thousand yards away, splitting heads like Taras Bulba, I don't mind open caskets, glowing children and one-legged dogs crawling to the middle of the freeway, I have slept there, the cement is warm at night, I'm glad real authors kill themselves, there is art in that, a shotgun for Hemingway, cocaine for Dostoevsky and his hemorrhaging lung, Nietzsche's marijuana fields and Kafka's fuck toys, Gogol's schizophrenic sunlight and the slow waltz of Cormac's necrophilia, Poe's malformed water head and blankets of ice for Jim Carroll and the hungry hole in his arm where all his money went.

Worries and fraudulent friends, the faggotry of Shakespeare and baroque romance, there is beauty in having a cold in your soul that never goes away, my junkie brother slamming his head against a brick wall, shooting smack and how the insecure female cactus glow golden with the dusk, the bluff and the bloated hive of niggers, boy is heroin, girl is coke and tina is methamphetamine, what you want is chinese white, 10 dollars a bag and 3 dollars a rig, if it's pure, Wally says you just pull water through the plunger, shake it and it's good to go, it's good to pop, it's heaven to mainline as the flashing lights and sirens start to reverberate your infected head-space, the slick and slimy wet asphalt of a greasy gas station parking lot, the streaming squadrons of cockroaches and gum on the sidewalk.

Too bad we haven't had a plague in a few days, a rupturing mountain and valley of living dolls, only illegal mexicans chocked full of green cigars, they are called candela's in an aficionado's world of bleak smoke and street-walking insanity, drug mules and chrome rims, police brutality and copper thieves. I'm hopeful there'll be a rampage shooting , assassinated kittens and lust for money, more gang violence and robberies, toothless meth addicts stealing commercial air-condition units, they work hard enough to be compensated, someone should tell them having an actual job is almost the same thing as the 9 hrs. it takes to surgically remove the bolts and wire. My aged work boots and dying flowers on the porch, I'm glad we are all spiders in a glass jar, we're being poisoned, racist tongues and how absolutely nothing bothers me now, newborn lightly blue babies in the dumpster, motherless, fatherless blots of rotten pumice, whores and john's in dirty bathroom stalls, gut-shot deer and cisterns of black syrup, I like it, I'm glad the world is ending and I finally found love at the end of it, I'm happy, let it end.