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.