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.