Añejo Shark

My elaborate Hans Pfaall's unparalleled soliloquy to the internets..

Concerning the insects and Amy Winehouse,

perfume in your nose, it's easy to criticize until you realize this junkie accomplished more than most of you will, ever, in your entire lives, and it only took her 27 years, most of you will never have talent, you'll merely criticize it on yahoo because you are miserable in your own life and have nothing better to do. the venom laced comments here are atrocious, you little parasites are an example of what is wrong with the world-not people with genuine problems, imperfect people crucified by little online ghouls like yourselves, all chocked full of pubescent jealousy and spite, rage-love and honor, good job, you danced on someone's famous grave and no one will even know who you are when you die. faggots.

Briefly, I'm an ancient relic, rope tornado around my waist, sleek and sunny country roads, a hint of gasoline, gathering clay from some other time, a brooding ligero leaf, maduro, bitter and eventually a white ash or the color of a fresh bruise before it splotches the skin. The dreary rain, blotting horizon, a sleepy Oslo hillside, tiny undeveloped people coldly shot down, Holden Caulfield standing like a crude statue at his barbaric cliff with arms spread out like a dilapidated cross, Erofeyev's Parakeet on a twig, the convulsing field of flowered bodies and purple throats swollen with clotted blood, the rabid televised wolves and greasy barrels of cognac, the thick amber marrow, slow-blinking grids of fancy electric lights, a unique text at 10:10pm, my slumbering meadow, dreamless paradise of chalk-pumice and picture-perfect bay windows, a pearlescent sonnet of pristine lavender kisses on my rugged shoulder blades, My lovely pint-sized Jen, a bucket of spit for everyone else, the swaying rye and dewy morning sunshine, speckled hyena and wild african dogs, the frenzied yelps and curling vines, her moon-cricket friends, big lipped twats with bad manners, big-tittied ebony bulbs with no etiquette, bug-eyed, bleary-eyed, berry-eyed banana chasers, the rosado wrappers dried on the syrupy plant-rocks, the blaring ambulances and flashing sirens, the pools of burnt mercury and icy glacier water, the lacerated elephant trails and a severe Habano Nub, a stylized microscopic stick, the Cain version is elite, a secret lemon shark in Lanier, dark and oily, knock your dick in the dirt, the sweet cedar yards and pine coffins of sugary wet drifts.

I feel like an old and bedraggled pickup truck, a million miles of sad gray charged battery Acid cigars, beautiful but rustic orange outline, how I crawl up a sloping tin-boxed spine, a crooked cool slab once chrome and ever so slightly searing to the touch, the brittle flaky texture and grains of smooth gravel, salt and peppery asphalt, gritty and grimy scorched morgue floor-board bans and how I rattle and cough out violent bludgeoned blue fatal engine smoke in ugly arcs, the blistering burn, a badly cauterized skull, warped framework of busted bolts and pouring oil making unhappy puddles, a deaden onyx motor, how I clank and abruptly come to a halt, left by the roadside glass like some archaic and weathered ribcage painting with weeds growing in the dry rotted tires, a strange metal skeleton, my bad teeth in the grass.