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.