pine tar

Writing is a stench, it's a gnarled rain-coffin unearthed from a muddy riverbed, headlights in the fog, a hollowed cross and emblematic veranda, it's a fever headache glimmering like a coin in the sand, holes for eyes, the bark and city-scape train rails slick with oil, aspirin tablets and sawdust on your caramel-wood floor. You can cherry pick it, call it sweet wet cedar, pristine mahogany, you can trace your smooth candy-coated bookshelf in your fancy apartment, your cobalt fish tank full of angry, ravenous red-bellied piranha you never feed,  but it's nothing more than grisly blocks of black-timber, a dull ax and morose funeral fire illuminating the white-hot coals underneath your skin, the veils of spider webs suffocating the ugly eyesores in the South we call Nigger Pines.

We praise the intoxicated author, the plantation and cotton fields, the blue gums of nappy headed children drinking berried fruit-boxes, the old watermelon wagons and sacks of freed banana, the metal silo and these mangled work boots and tired hands, a writer; some feckless bishop in a cathedral of silence, the artful domed ceiling, the angels and demons all clawing and biting at each others grimy neck, the dramatic outbursts and slow-moving molasses time lapse of the last several minutes, the lemon peels and scalps of orange, the obese and shirtless ghoul haunting the skinny hallway that poses as a toilet for the disorderly, the blackened and rock-hard monstrous globes of chewing gum embedded and fetid urine stains bestowing a sad mural and outrageous mosaic with no title, an endless and timeless dirt road with no rocks, a hangman's knot tied to a fence post.

We can beautify it, ignore the rattle of a makeshift ambulance and prison full of priests and hospital workers, the dust plumes and lead-based paint, the marrow and jetting nail from the sun-warped cart, we can make the dry garden canvas grow with tarred flowers, sprouting new vibrant green stalks and peppered with willow leaves, the bitter rays of poetic sunlight and even mention the canary yellow dress on a scented laundry line, the bathing sunshine on your pretty face.

Angus-Lion

I wish I was in an Israeli olive orchard, a cranberry camouflaged rain-garden of blushing amber or dozing off on an old rotten wood dock in North Georgia, my pale lemony skin and gelid eyes closed, the murky green syrup and soft moss among the forgotten timber and remnants of lions. The frayed fishing line spiderwebs and rusting skeletal frame underneath, horrid stalks of amputated Elms, the melting topaz stalactites from another planet made from abstract pools of hemorrhaging orange pond-mercury, the sunken motor-boat; a lavish ruptured hotel of decayed mildew and festering allure, the artery-blue metallic crank and stolen ship-anchor, the silvery tadpoles making shy ripples and scintillating particle reflections for the dart frogs, a dedicated chorus of army-turtle on the trunk-pulpit of a dead blood-Oak.

The buzzing dragonflies are like tiny insecure Apache helicopters, the playful adolescent fireflies like brightly elusive falling stars, little light-houses illuminating in random outbursts, crazy intertwined and complex circuit boards on the rocky shoreline. The drone of predatory mosquito's and bewildered cistern-ants on the march, they look like a militia of rag-tag Somali soldiers, all lined up on the gentle arc of a bending grape colored twig, a battle formation for the drunk, an African safari sun-dome in a humid swarm of itching and bruising welts of color and fig. Broken leaves beneath a ceiling of ashen Skyline-ivy, birch bugs, skyscraper-beetles and titanic elephant snails, the lone stone faucet in a newly carved mountain cavern, a deep puddle of chrome and golden haze, the slumber of a sleepy gray squirrel, a bed of almonds and cashews, the old logging road permeated with the debris of Cherokee Rose and castle-thistle, blackened tomato vines and fractured tiles of glassy praying mantis, the milky chalk-pumice and dewy honey droplets, the ever-expanding moisture on a delicate Chennai tea-leaf.

The white bay-pines and canopy of burnt green kudzu are almost made of breath, subdued daylight, the brittle ambrosial bark and scalped branches from a previously angry storm, the heavily blotted purple bloom-clouds and obscure waves of diminishing contrast, the silent fall of musical light ribbons, a canvas brown floor-map of rough texture and abrasive burlap, the permanent sky spitting icy horse carousels and dragon sand blasted globes of frozen teardrops, reminiscent of your Heaven-resting dog, your only friend, a flowery dung heap for a grave, the small wet footprints in the red clay, the muddy maze of sharp sticks and scattered smooth river-rock, the strewn hay-straw and cold frost-needles make a nice nest for the trembling Wren.

New City

Caramel flavor, sour apple watches, delicate velvet and ample smiles, a malfunctioning electronic cartridge, gentle blinking headlights, a cranberry-lemon colored taxi cab and the black stealing, the poor begging and the hungry, intoxicated; an ancient Arab breaking the back of a Tiger-cat with a broom-stick, the molasses colored man slumps horribly, shot by a juvenile sniper, the centric legionary's keeping order, the Pachyderm elephants crushing a vendors' kiosk, the sensitive particles and circuit boards splinter like shards of small shoulder blades.

I feel the New York metropolis of smooth, wet pavement, the cold droplets and infected plague stations, the raving alchemists, the makeshift morgue's and oily burnt remnants of a stark communist banner. The budding linen factories for the malnourished bodies, the white coat labs and synthetic air, the breathing masks and paramedic-goggles, the tarred, slick, typhoon-withstanding bio-suits and infirmary of plastic rosary beads, the splotchy red viral strains and pandemic fish tanks and canisters of hazardous waste, scented florid chemicals and legions of sunlight coral, sea-salt and sweet cinnamon, aged brine and packets of blood for fusion.

Silver scope-sighting, recrudescent crosses and hurried paratrooper Nuns, the roof and pitter-patter of nylon parachutes, the canary-yellow blood spattered doctors and apothecary assistant doves, the balloon animal pocked-faced nurses carrying human-sticks to burn, the eruption of incinerator doors, the colorless hallway and vacant limb-carts, the basement furnace and brackish barrels of unused lye.

Inside the corrosive veins and lacquering countenance, bludgeoned arteries and raw optical nerves, examining the sheared stomach and terrible, malcontent offal, the devoid eyes stare into the empty illusion of a fluorescent heaven. The broken teeth, glass jars, the syrupy emerald scalpel and subsequent spider-balm, absorbent pine-sol and stale bleach, the mouth agape, shaking and convulsing wax-skeletons.

The vexed puddles dissolving, sand bags and sawdust-clerks and call centers and nuclear bile in the caustic street, the silent traffic of belly-up cargo planes, the U-shaped drains and hydraulic valves, the leaking ceiling faucets and fractured spring-globe, the drowsy mechanical sky and migraine of light showers, the stoic, starving horrors among the dead and dying sewer flowers. Unhappy brown lepers perched atop cardboard and tobacco cathedrals, a niggardly Priest scorching a stolen spoon, the hum of Hindu charms in a painted window, the magical lucid veils and lurid vapors, a nearly nude ebony whale, belligerent and bickering madly over the dim-light of a pristine Persian oil lamp, inside an unknown apartment a tarnished mildew mop and mahogany lion, a silica-gel floor rug, the quiet blinds and sharp poetic contrast and cash register almost full, a secret shop of manufactured pharmaceuticals and free stickers.

Below an escaped inmate on a corner stoop harvesting the rubbish and garbage heaps, the copper coins and strands of silken hair, the iron charcoal colored rails and steps to the narcotics parlor. Perfume reset buttons for the vents, the severe mustache of a tiny wrinkled olive shaped merchant, the Egyptian automatic rifle and a feudal Japanese sword in a locked display case, the strange Haitian icons and Baroque shelves of dusty manure, European deodorant, the surgically opened capsules on the counter, the buttocks injections and boxes of pensive pencils, the camel picture adjacent a storm cloud photograph reprint, the filtered box-fan rattles like an old carnival of Chevrolet's, distant orange fumes of hybrid-gasoline and dry malt liquor, tin cans of corn whiskey and illegal Mexican-rum, the scowl of the fat wife and her pursed blue lips, her elegant elongated eyelashes of India, the neatly intertwined coil of exotic bracelets and the repulsive cyclops staggers and stumbles like an invalid, inebriated punch-drunk boxer, the grinning idiot son washing the floor, drooling pink tongue protruding, a parrot in an apoplectic rage dances on a free television, the cord frayed and entrails exposed, the beautiful Predator drones and Reaper smoke, the charred cinders of a Toyota Hilux, the explosive violence outside and thick marrow of a suicidal crimson puddle.

I hear the blaring siren's, the faux terrorists and fucked orchestra of immigrated felons, the failing power-lines, the barely functioning power grid and newly proposed daily tax legislation, bar-codes and artificial currency, the apocalyptic Punjabi pundit prophesying to his plaudits, the petite pleasure workers and the madness culprit, the plot and plodding of the howling ambulances, ambulant avenue's and stray bus terminals, the terse train tubes and the tarmac of terminally ill short skirts masquerading and posing as tethered pendulum's among the traumatic powdery chalk outlines of tall mannequin's, the corrupt politician cyborgs and unbroken robotic frequency of scrubbed static, the systematic valley of Kings, the propaganda skull posters, the slow scrape of a busted wall-clock, the bleary rain pelting a metal shack full of antique porcelain dolls.

Morning, A crystallized sky-line, glossy rivers and the shivering slumber of icy-pine needles by the lake. The inky tar and black blots of boat-oil, patchwork canals of fence mazes and the dull hum of tired farm machinery, old ugly metal buckets of porch-nails and beautiful relics of rust. 

The town, a stolen raft, flickering street lamps and ghosts, the wooden ladders, torch lanterns and death rattle of brittle winter leaves. Barren cold sidewalks and the lost umbrella of a coin-fountain thief. A burlap knapsack and window clover trinket, a Chimney Swift blends and blankets the crumbling spire, the acerbic wound of sadness and neglect, life and death. 

Daybreak to day end, empty silo, gunshot tin and the scarred shrapnel holes look like the strange black eyes of a veiled Cobra Lily, the dozing paint horses in the pasture, the unkempt tangle of British-Indian copse, a kudzu shrouded wheelbarrow full of rotten timber frames, a musky mausoleum of twigs and scattered bones of broken limbs, an archaic scythe buried by ageless red dirt and shore-clay, shy Castle-Oaks gazing about from the faint tendrils of fading sunlight, burnt-sepia portraits of flawless fake stage-actors and books and verses neatly encased in gospel-twine, the silent library of decapitated statue's and poorly written manuscripts concerning the political theater and scent of wet cedar, the kitchen of arbitrary blacks and pale-checkered floor, a small milk puddle from a broken glass pitcher.

City of silken madness, melting nightfall and sunrise rain, a cylinder of patterns and pious and pallid angels, the scape and nape of your neck, French architecture and caustic rogue pavement, white-pearlescent stone and charred marble rock, the sinister guillotine and smooth barely bruised texture of the brick bulwark, the bleak prison on the hill, the bastion of classical loneliness and aged cinematic veranda. The vacant hotel and embassy knots of exposed blood-roots and blue-demure, a battalion with no tanks taking rest, makeshift army-cots and estranged tents, sewing angry fabric for old holes, green soldiers smoking cigarettes and talking loudly, a rasp fist-fight and barbaric yawp from an inquisitive citizen-gnome. The Capital Bank and police on patrol, a lone drunk with a bottle of urine as his only companion, a memory of a dog, long gone, dead and buried in a cemetery that is no longer there, lavender petals on the water, an orchard of frozen flowers and permanent ache in the hollow bark of his open chest.

snowfall

Everyone speaks with an echo, infernal dying light and sad embers of painted freezing flames, the slick snow-wet brickwork ; patchwork pastels and bright white wintry mixture, the baleful bliss and bales of pallid cigar smoke drifting through the battered cold clouds.

Hands down, holding sexual gazes, an arabesque pirouette, punctured coke cans and rushing icy plateau's, meek favorable fawns dozing in the meadow. An erotic curve and playful bite mark on your inner thigh, bit lip, window closed, day-break; warm-hot breath on the steel blue-blinds, iris cobalt of laconic ambulant shadows kissing and humming softly.

Tracing fingertips, veiled low-moaning movement manifesto, occulent orchid drones, perpetually violent sun-light in violet shock-waves, sleet-showers of pensive poetic skin, hard thick covers in an arctic embrace of vicious cinders, a romantic snow-globe of frozen rain, the slow rails and shotgun mortuary's of the drowsy city plantation outside.

Inside, lavender and licorice, charming faux wax on waxen wooden floors, a gentle tender smooth salient and succulent caramel ass on my bed, an intoxicated heaven, kiss your neck, to the center, tongue circling the darker color, yummy areola's and the other, the dreary snowflakes start to fall like silver ashen petals, triple opaque hue portraits of passive pearlesque busted plates, you are pretty and purring like resplendent raspberries in a frost gulch, soft glacier blooms and gelid mist over the sleepy street-lamps.

midas touch

I feel like I was bitten by a prostitute, a rust colored prosthetic limb razing my dead skin. Old golden holes and window eyes for window dummies, all neatly dressed ebony mannequins along a sidewalk of chewing gum.

Squared apartment complex, a labyrinth of skinny-fat whores, unsophisticated money and coin. Gaze and wasted stems, sporadic discarded wrappers, small delicate frames of plastique human-explosives, candy and sugar coated arteries under the robes and veils of clothes and chemical smells.

Traffic-Legionary's and the terse stampede of caramel gluts for the gluttons, the oil thieves and starving horrors behind the dumpster. A black deep onyx cigar box, unbelievable smooth texture, the slender curve and ripple of magnetic, poetic skin, brutal teeth marks, demons, a bludgeoned Afghan slick with rain, sickly story birds and blue bruises under her eyes.

syria

Fucked up ruinous portraits, all ivory blasted hollow to fit in these ceramic mosaics. Black caskets and hezbollah yellow, terroristic birds on a wire with caustic echo's.

It shall be for flocks, so sayeth the Lord. Skittish skinny arms, sunlight orchids, bereaved elms bent like filtered light through a battered window blind, it's bearable, these god-less, goddamn exploding barrels of burnt flowers.

A blustery winter mixture of snow and ice; an aftermath debris blood red and holding their dead children like blankets of starved tree limbs, flags and burlap sacks, they look like little skeletal cages, silver tracks in the snow, the birds look like tiny plague doctors or nigger priests perched on the curved rib of a makeshift pulpit.

Lakeshore Mall

Spitting rain on the Venetian carousel, portrait of Lakeshore, the slim avenues and flooded canals, automatic pistols and armed flower gardens, illegal children playing with empty high-caliber shell-casings all littered among the rubbish dump, the decapitated tree-stumps and scarred narrow vein of the resplendent and beautiful heart of slums.

I would pen badly written notes about robotic Booksamillion cashier girls, the brooding change-bucket on the counter, the round doll eyes and intoxication of crowded Persian-Brown aisles. A brisk guffaw of an ebony robust harrier, the insecure drone of elevator musak, elderly grenade attacks, navigating their land-yacht-tanks and overflowing buggies on the cracked sidewalks and stampeding ramparts, the broken Baptist church bells in the background, orthodox Asian cathedrals, the deaf, dumb and blind mannequins all slick with carrot oil on the plastic cheek-bones and olive tree t-shirts, only $19.99. Light blue Puma exterior, dancing, laughing raven-haired lepers, pretending to be pretty like photogenic rainbows, concealed weapons and berserk appliances posing as inmates in an asylum, the howling, ravenous non-fiction section, a palace of lavish novella-drapes and standing water puddles, it's more like wading through manure. Blooms and carnivals of knife-attacks, explosive sky-orchids, the mechanical, skeletal elbow of a ditch-crane at a recycle plant, the happily buried garbage mounds, the stalks of torn aluminum sheets, the coppery feathers and scalped tin cans in the red dirt, the slumber of the soft, old clay.

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.

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.

claro casket

Busting bricks off the overpass, the freeway snipers and dim glow of an orange sunset. I miss El Paso, the caramel rivers of Mexican Caravan's, petite taco vendors and inky Juárez faded blue tattoo's. Child-Asesino's with automatic rifles, the Sinaloa Cartel and their fancy diamond-etched marijuana belt buckles, the Zeta's and their pearled bathtubs full of dismembered officials, barrels of pack-mule cocaine.

I always wanted to be a shadow of death in old Mexico, the clank of agonizing produce-wagons, the hordes of toothless bandito, suicidal black flies at the mouth, the lifeless brim of the biggest sombrero and gold-plated pistol, star-shaped spurs and stolen gringo ostrich boots in the dirt. A robusto cigar, A pale horse, lavish saddle, milk and honey. Dilapidated stone-dwellings, caked amber cement-mud, stray chickens and a skinny white goat tethered to a skeletal fence post. An old wooden bucket with bullet hole in it, an ocean of curious chocolate eyes,  I wanna ride past the lonesome cactus, the silhouette of dying, how it fades into the horizon, the pallid haze at dusk, the somber glint of light flashing from a silver medallion, the decayed steeple of a ancient church, an ugly yellow whorehouse, the prostitutes look like dolled up scare-crows with badly painted features, one grease-stained belly about to pop with the demon seed of a gunslinger, a flat tortilla in a metal pan, the rotten stables and intrinsic poverty of intricate Aztec abodes, my laconic slope, loving trigger, the red color around you, shivers of the graves I've dug, the whispers and funerals of sorrow, light beard and gritty Stetson-Bat Masterson cowboy hat, the heavily dotted pebbles in the sand, the covered brown faces shying away and parting like the sadness of the sea.

you too have choler

Sick of this plastic bag in this fuckin' dank orchard of onyx decay, the callous worms and perfumed maggots swimming through my gutted canals. People, the living, breathing blots of toxic orchids, the heart-shaped faces of owls.

Lonely, you're all like swept clovers on the porch, the rotten mulch and sodden wood planks, raw red feet and dirty toes. Cedar chips and caramel shavings, flowered petals and rotten blooms on the ceiling, a dull ache in my chest cavity, the reflecting echo of lilac and poisoned dandelions in the breeze. Black soil on the rough texture of blistered burlap, silver duct tape on my severed hands, sweltering droplets of pristine moisture, a river of florid marrow in this hefty garbage bag, yellow drawstring, outside an unspeakable-untouched beauty, deathless and blanched with milk thistle.

saw-grass

Among the flowered dirt roads, the blissful wrecks, the broken windshields and metallic tunnels, miles of wire and copper cables. A sandy dashboard fissure, tablets for a headache, gray skin clouds on an operating table. Distraught coins on the floorboard, blemished gasoline and camouflaged mantis, they look like they are still praying to God, bad posture, bent and dead.

The sodden mulch gardens bloated from the petroleum-rain, the untroubled engine cows, straying, nameless orchids in a black ballet of pallid art. Wet bark chips and cedar shavings, the headlight-lizards shrink from the sight of everyone. Splintered limbs and door-frames lay like barbaric amputations, the bitter-ink trees and taciturn pasture, a skeletal farmer building a fence, wooden heart in a bucket, liquor-holes in the gut. 

the baboon

Strawberry patches of perfume plants, pinwheel cushions of yellowed dart frogs, a Guyanese breeze of dense green jungles and gory choir of piranha teeth, makeshift camouflage beret's, duct taped machine guns and badly broken bamboo cages overflowing with vicious wild orchids and a fat oil-black military officer smoking a fine barrel-aged cigar in the rain.

Grave-side, grave-yard, coils of skeletal grave-robbers digging in the wagon-wheel ruts, balmy jail bars, formaldehyde breathing berry-eyed circus tent, a vast array of salted candy voodoo sticks, slit cardboard tickets and slimy opaque gates stuck with a child's chewing gum statue, the sunlight aghast, sun-swept silver shadows on the yard of a Haitian prison. Ligero leaf, A fancy tobacco Cadillac with no gasoline, a wedding dress for a corpse, a bokor's zombie doll and needle pricked arid chest of an obese puffer fish, alice blue curtains from a quiet château, a hospital chalet of convalescent chapels, dilapidated traffic lights turning black.

A carnival of untied shoe-laces, A mummified midnight vendor with ugly exposed draugr veins in the neck, a sweat ring on the stitched collar, inky flat fingernails crowned with callus, copper vikings posed in clay, a mansion of brightly colored prizes, antique jam-jars of entombed goldfish and a bursting target made of flames, a small hoop for a miniature horse, walls of shrunken heads and shy, slanted faces made of sickly caramel apples, dripping plastic daedric artifacts, delightful rosary beads and a sad balloon mosaic, shards of stolen ocean glass, pools of marauding church-ants suffocated in orange syrup, amber-decayed bourbon caskets and floods of pretty wooden girls littered with bubonic beauty, the blistering bare feet scorched with volcanic hearts and baleful smiles of blooming cruelty, the burnt, charred bones in the honey suckle sand, barbaric shouts of soldiers and the rattle and ring of rusty shackles, the shore-line cocaine boats, tin-shack paradise of soothing sturdy chains, the scaled slums and coagulated blood-acres of caustic white-sweetness, a submarine of cocoa, the sweltering canal scent of succulent sap, fields of sugar-cane, the sugar-sky cans of corn whiskey from the sun-house, sun-shine when we die.

macanudo hyde park

Candy apples embedded in the ugly dank brown carpet, this lavish hotel is a vast expanding red slum of intoxicated patrons, dolled prostitutes and coins on the bedsheets. Attractive lepers and storm bugs under the pillow.

Shotgun on a nightstand, my heavy revolver at my hip, another pistol near the sink, smaller caliber for concealing , the slow drip of a busted bronze faucet, a droplet of blood, spectacles askew, my overcoat and belt hanging on the doorknob. The lobby of funny hats, elegant costumes and pretty feminine accents, servers and errands, unyielding array of candles, a remote balustrade of chandeliers and electrical sparks from a camera flash.

 The spine-like staircases navigating the velvet air like charmed snakes, open and closing onyx-framed doors, an obese priest, ancient mechanical elevators cast golden with strange eyes, the magnificent ball room, a perfumed ceiling of flowers, somber slender statues and lonesome bells ringing, room 104, a silver key rolled gently in my fingers, heart softly pounding, amber mahogany cabinets locked, pill box pine-tree heaven, a flourishing plantation of cotton and florid slaves howling under the whip of torture, moon crickets singing, reflecting waters, the angry hum and rattle of a T-model, liquor barrels on the back of a bedraggled truck shift and stumble with the rocks in the dirt road. Sunrise, beauty could be love, My fancy woolen suit, vegetable tanned John Lobb's, roughly six hundred and sixty dollars in my wallet. An etched note sewn into my chest, your name, your face, your ink dissolved in tears.

soul of a spider

Light rain, 54 degrees. I stare at the melancholy gutted walls, the gentle slope awning of a dilapidated chapel, a flowered courtyard littered with shards of ebony. Motherless tiles and ugly green linoleum. A box of pristine thumb-nails and burnt paint canister. A makeshift morgue, aged chrome and dusted stainless-steel shelves, abnormal and abstract instruments, question marks within the faded marble tile, a cruelly cold coal chamber for burning the swollen-elephantine bodies plagued with cloudy influenza and the red masque of bloated death. Black minnow buckets for the putrid fluid, pans of rancid rat poison, the watchful eyes in the cracks, crumbs of French bread, brittle sticks festering like wood hearts infected by frost spiders. The Bubonic wing, the typhoid scripture and gospel of tuberculosis, the dying embers of Russian consumption, the cholera colored wood floors curled from the constant drizzle of early morning rain, a diseased novella on a windowsill.

Sparks on the bruised horizon, a low purple abrasion bludgeoned with crimson arrows and yellow jaundice scaffolds. Cinnamon lost eyes, a child's melted toy in the clay, the sad hallways of a state hospital, psychiatric ward. The exposed frames, a waspish food plate badly bending from weather damage, a tarnished coin in a soft drink slot, the holes in the door and inside marrow, bitter rust and horrible fungus. Icy chemical stalagmites, an artery of rolling carts and inky medicine, an asylum atop a rolling cobalt hill, a sleepy view of the crumbling statue through the fingertips of a broken window. Busted globes of glass, abandoned staircases and vicious debris sick with pine-salt and poison ivy. A drowsy galaxy of waxen webs and silky strewn candy wrappers. The orange fibers of asbestos, the malformed insulation and remnants of a corroded metal patient bed, haunted hospitals howling with tortured ghosts, the little angels in malodorous burlap bags, small piles of blood-cloth in a rotten coffin, the miniature skeletons scattered in casket-puzzles of bone and brine, strangely contorted silhouettes walking and whispering, the hurtful smiles dancing wildly before my rabid eyes, endless hallways and somber shadows, tattered veils of forgotten curtains, the hollowed blackness among the falling diamond dust.

maduro gurkha fuerte

On a South African elephant trail, I spy a sunset safari and a sailing gazelle in the sand, it has dark chocolate eyes that are barely alive, it's guts torn and pulled like a knotted and tangled anchor rope, the shipyards are alone and quiescent, majestic towers and machine-gun turrets, disarming flies, broken goblets of precious clay, oily pastels and butterflies, hollowed burned out tanks at the bay. It lays there in a slick velvet heap, thick red gluts and deeply ebony matted texture, white foam from the mouth, the last vapors of a starless dream. There are wind orchids all fucked and askew, heroin jungles and petrol bombs unexploded. Fragments of angry ghosts caught in the razor-wire, a flat canopy pock marked with cobra blood, I feel its remote sadness, the unbearable darkness shroud, the entombed casks and aged barrels of cognac, an adolescent onyx soldier equally gut shot and breathing in heavy leaden gasps, his wild cricket eyes terrified and drifting like clouds.

Stark, raving, madness and trumpets blaring, I can feel death and happiness, the enslaved rain gardens and dry leaves, howling streets and empty book coffins, abandoned buildings, bombed automobiles and sparks from a traffic robot. Knavish voyeurs, blue panties and the ghastly pierced blots of pumice. I feel ballistic, a writing fuck miracle chased by swarms of bullet-head niggers, shotgun hole in my heart, frozen stems of brisk violets, packs of newport, orange beret. With unfolded smooth arms, a luxurious; curious ocean and portraits of sliding glass rails, robotic ashes in the snow, Egyptian cotton, dove-less wings and stormy coal-tablets, escaping animals, my unhappy and verily meshing subtle forest of lash and hot sticky balm, inky eyelids and rare untouched iris of shining eyes.

unblemished

Outside, Whiskey barrels and cigar coffins, palsy people and obliterated sun-shards, sun-gardens and faded linoleum sun-safari's. Rotting stables, overly, bitterly astonished faces, the chupacabra laughing and howling at the soft, old day. A screen-door Jesus, sober paint splotches and hollering buckets of shivering, melting snow, raw leprosy and fake plastic carousel of pretend, pretty girls.

Inside, Sun grown, Rum Belicoso, aged Spanish Cedar cases, silver locket, the slick, sweet succulent aromatic curl of you, smooth caramel hip ensnared by your phosphorescent pink satin veil, mocha moth at a sea-lantern, ample landscape masterpiece, work of art, shore-line, sun-light haze of an aficionado's craft, a calming alluring contrast like a poem, verily poised naked, a mosaic sash of shadowy maduro skin, sad fractals of the window blinds, vinyl basket of butterflies, a baleful valet of candied chocolate eyes, petite drink of cognac, licorice and lavender hand-written letters, scented  lilac twilight of luscious opulent delight, lightly bitten twice, laconic and lovely valley of you, laying there like a pensive and purring angel on the bed.

war

Ballistic writing, be nice if Israeli bombs grow fat, cinder Islam and every waking body, the mantis and cloth drapes of each dwelling, ribbons and spirals of dust, watching the skies bludgeon with aching fever and bruise-swelling. Ashen faces charred with hot white-heat, scaffolds dry and bleached, endless trash-avenues of dirt and starving dogs, an arm, a leg, a pair of small feet. Perished horse, broken bottles and knees, A lavish royal palace, poetic nuclear breeze, melting bodies with faces laughing, death dancing on the skeletal leaves.

terse gaze

..to write this way is like raving or a cloud.
-Dostoevsky

Watchful eyes and the charms of our idols, the icons and passing, falling towers. A ballistic capital, the bells and frost morgues, a funeral of leafy wheel-barrows and inky tablets, the insides of a dead soul, glass jars in the street, library cataclysm, the literary beauties and raw youth. Niagara downpour, lemony fingers, tsunami debris, inhuman cattle herds, the slow-slated stone tiles and awning of dozy, lethargic roofs, the slothful arms of sleepy zombies, the urgent surge and precinct assault, a cutlass machete, starving windmill, howling apocalypse.