hellsforheroes

I have an ulcer on my eye...because I roll like that, hardcore never take the contacts out...apparently I should be hospitalized because most adults can't administer eye drops once every hour....right...I am glad my opthamologist doesn't think I am mentally challenged...So...I am raising a glass and toasting scar tissue outside my field of vision...coo-coo cachoo...mrs. robinson, jesus loves you more than you may know...whoa-whoa-whoa...oh-oh-oh...




I find myself reusing words, and topics, and irony...bad habits...Ugly nuns...piss pour enunciation...Billions of people involved in simultaneous masturbation...we came...some saw...many conquered


Self indulgence
Had a speakeasy conversation
With apathy
About me

And my rooster
Moreover how it used to
Cocksure
Wiggle cherry red

In wee hours chippie sparkly sky
Moon shot
Heartbreak
Creationism

Coming grandiose
Pillow savvy
And cunning flushed breastbone
Serendipitous

Fall colors
Ruby rusty apple
Animalistic
Mealy green worm cider

Purple gulp punch lacquer
Philanderer
Pleasant polymorphic
Derelict devotion

Like her
Soft spot
Rubbing gypsy hymnal
Saint Genevieve patient

Humanity
Strychnine pallid sufficient
Clocked
Fateful

Rabble-rouser
Slung whey
Tender yonder bender beyond her
Tip-toe tap dance

Disco ball irises
Vanquished as black opium
Pawned
Cathartic pussy

Breathless
Mentioned
Mutton
Hopped

Dopey
Flabbergasted
Irish
Pickle wily

Conceit
Bare
Rasping
Bawdy house

Fleet
Beat
Merry
Featured

Feats
Nuance
Bucket
Swill swollen sweet





Son Volt is so nice to me, they want the wind to take my troubles away...it'll take quite a mighty wind...they are also blessing pretty woman with breathe as sweet as dew of the vine...I think I might start praying to Son volt...religion when I die...


Umm...something I am working on

I opened the car door to a wave of intense humid air. Miserable as it was when the sticky damp sensation clinged to the motions of my every breathing second. Half wasted I crawled questioningly towards the door to the gas station, my mouth filled with white mucky cottony filament from the choice herbals enjoyed just five minutes ago with the bar worker compatriots. Stoned I was as I reached for the door to the Kum and Stay, pulling with what felt like the lankiest limbs. The door swung open wistfully pressing upon my nose an air of a disinfectant drenched perfume, a room filled with bargain basement leather hoodlums wishing to hobbitted parishioners of roadside blasphemy. In plain sight, my vision dry eyed, over the rack of slugging motor oil, there was a biker chick with her motherly fat hanging all too comfortably over her black seemingly stained pungently odorous pants, wedging an ass squirreling fitting only for the eyes of her corn nuts craving boyfriend, the park supervisor of aged misuse, misgiving autonomous royalty, living in his divorced incapacity for loving his children financially, maintaining nothing altruistically but his suburban white trash designation of social institution. They, the humpties on the wall, made eye contact with me to imply my presence as what must have seemed like a mixing Canadian cold wind on a July hot day, a crass unwelcome thunderous change. Fuck them. I strolled to the back of the store, nose in the air, my arrogance drowning the charge of their souls, my presence enraptured by my narcissistic heart. I slid open the cooler door, and reached for lemonade only to remember my sleepy overtones implying that I reach for the hard stuff, the big drug, the gran mal, caffeine, my mountain dew. I turned in a spin of strut, driving my hand deep into the crumpled pile of loose rich paper. I reached for a crush of flushed thread, dinero man, Uncle Sams great answer, fucking money. I looked up into the eyes of the cashier girl as she mouthed some ridiculously cheap price for a high this lovely, a horrible price for dependence. She looked at me gently, allowing ten seconds of a lucid dream. I let my horses run wild, thinking about her bowed nineteen year old frame, spindly from the grace of popular thin image, I was wrapping around every thought she might scream to me as she came, every dirty thing her boyfriend wished he asked her to grovel out like gravel in the etches of dopamine destruction. I was looking into her blue eyes, mentally jerking off, all crazy shaped and starry like Cleopatra pull painting failed genetics into alien abduction hypnotic cat orbs of Lake Mead on a sunny day, some unholy blue, and true, tricolor just like she was. And she was honest, an honest girl even in my dreams. In my dreams, I was thinking, thinking about how much a little sunshine, and flowers makes her smile like the little girl her daddy held on his lap listening to the elbow rubbing of crickets in the pitches of evening. My dreams had her as the little girl who loved hard for her man, but not with her dirty laundry, her clean heart, her earnest unknowing, her ignorant parabolic bliss. I dreamed her pure soul, married with dangling cute earrings, and pretty proper features. She was forgotten as she handed me back a jingling of change.
From pornography to addictions, I was changing; I collected my change from her hands; the wear and sentiment in those minted indentures uncanny. I was a walking clich, sunglasses on my head waiting to be worn, shields to protect against ghosts. I was safe, eyes as the windows to the soul, magical with drapes, the sunglasses sweet blinders, a little UV clothing, a piece of pop culture armor, on top of my head. My head with silver, my pants fresh with silver, jingle, washing khaki comfort loosely around a wiry frame of former athleticism comforted now by spatial workmanlike enthusiasm. My shirt dangled loosely with its colorful staged cotton button crispness. I smelled of faint smoke, fresh summer air, and a sexy vanilla linger, I was a wreck, mouth mucked up, eyes redded over, hair all cut off, buzzed to the summer gods. I was a bum needing my nookie. So I swigged the magic Mountain dew quenching my thirst along with my high. I was again a rational human being at status quo, a man now on the middle of the road. I opened the door to the Kum and Stay, peered my head up oddly, and glanced towards my chivalrous saint, my Trump, my freeway warrior, the trusty stead.
Sitting in a lonely little parking spot, Trumpy slept, waiting for her next run with the thunderous bison of free range cattle driving, the big rigs of shipping midnight exasperation. Trumpy was catching her breathe waiting for her chance to show the big boys what a little magic runt could do, what an underdog with a soul could do, what my little saint had in her heart. I took seven steps in one, opened the car door, climbed in, settled the indifference of lights and radio, and set out. Behind me I could see that passage of the gas station, the emptiness of its night as a hollow beacon for meetings, fillings, debauchery, a service station for horses, a pit stop for warriors, repute for highway heroes, a lighthouse of freeway.
My mouth was quenched, my eyes fluid, my trump charging. The night was young; I was only an hour from my date with her. I was off of work, on my way home to clean my self up, to scrape the surface for the greater definition of false identity. Beauty that is like the money of impurity to a financial world, in a way that false realities dictate premises of no substance, but rather that of a common denominator, fleeting. I was quick to the road in dreamy over anticipated thought, I was imaginative, and bull shit, my future date reoccurring louder in my mind than the corruption of other spirits, the musing sick, music. I was thinking about locking her lip-sticked level, her pearly white bucked caps, with my eyes closed. I was thinking about the subliminal endorphins for the fireworks of sex and her. I was partitioning over the radio just dwelling on her unknown, the carnal I have no clue about, the enchantment of a new bittie, the tingles that fly when the delusion ships are being stocked in the harbor, never yet knowing how hard the wind will believe, the fearless trance of jumping from the unfathomable glittering sky towards the sinking rushing ground, the chance of rejection in the lights of acceptance, the angles of persuasion, the words to say, the games to tell, the plays of the unanticipated success, god blessed, genius.
With the sun a half hour from metamorphosis, I pulled into the drive way of my college campus home, only five hundred dollars a month for this piece of uneducated education. I sprang my stead into rest, my transmission into park, and ran from my horse into the gates of my ravaged abode. Clean up time. I threw the door open, and closed in a smooth motion of repetition, threw my shirt towards the pile of clothes some what near my laundry basket, my futile laundry, always being done always being cleaned, never being folded enough, never being put away like a good boy should. Always worsening, soon enough the belt was unloosened past my waist, and the pants were dancing with the shirt, tangling in wrinkled oblivion, then the boxers, yellow as the bright sun, and then finally the socks, smelling of sweaty day long walking, endocrine entrapped musty friction. I was stark naked into the evening of open windows, open nudity, open life. Sticked and stoned noticing a calm uneasiness, like somebody borrowed a shirt, and left the hanger in an uncommon place, but it was nothing more than a second thought. I was off to the shower, and the date, the craps table of relations of the fickle kind, dating, mating, courting, chortling.
I walked into the bathroom with the dim light surrounding me, crazy long waves of independent non-focused interpretation amidst the warming shower water, the erasure of tumult. I relayed into the waded steam of burning distillation, the wallows of connective energy filling my neurons, pampering me for the oncoming rendezvous, Sam. Sam is where my thoughts driftedwhat kind of name is Sam, androgynous, sexually free, sweet, as all girls are. I wonder what she will wear, hopefully something tampering with the hems of subtle darkness, the lines of cleaved tanning, the seems of cloth spanning her globes, her issued fancy, her enunciation.
I was pruning my body in the wake of zoning, the preparation of a simple situation like any before, a simple overblown tremendous glory, a preparation for anything, my date included as anything. I was baked in my shower lengthening salvation to a world in my hands. I saw in front of me, my roommates girlfriend pulling off the clothes of her poachable petite ripe peach of a neurotic friend, irrational figurative fanciful avid women. The two girls were stripping each other naked, right in front of my blurry shower door. I was in rigorous ecstasy as they opened the shower entry, and climbed in, feline like lace. They reached through the fog of my shower hallucination, and wrapped their hands around my telephone pole calling out to the world of anyone willing to listen.hello pick up the phone, hello. pick up the phone. I was clenching my cock, wading into beta waves hoping to get off, hearing the phone ring, fantasizing, not stopping to answer.
I finished shampooing melancholy all over my tissued keratin. I turned the shower knob against the background music faint to my previously deaf thinkings, and reached for my towel, my transferring armor, my carrier of naked nubbins warm to the moderate machine generated fabricated indoor air conditioned air. My savior fighting it, the nights own cool, the down of a conditional suns rule, the nights thanksgiving not needed as its penance like time being ushered by the washing, the rock to judge all against, time and the night not needing congratulations, as they are their own salutations in their infinite mysterious incantations. I was alive. I had a message on my phone, my ex-girlfriend blathering something about rupture, animosity, and perversion. Just a few minutes ago I was in the very core of every moment, the giddy up, the wily strut, the tripping of the light, fantastic. I ignored my ex, and went back to preparation.
I was staring into the eyes of my mirror reflecting me, reflect on me, reflect on me. Time was ticking. I was shaved, blade against skin, loving the blood. I was primped, and panned, and off to the closet like batman to the bat cave, to find his buddy armor, his gauge and gear. I was dressed solid like an oak to willow in the way that streaming and shakes commune the nuances a person might construct, to offer the tell tale signs of initiation, sappy bull shit love, and all its corn holed association. A night version was chosen, a simple braver, darker, slaver, and a man youd want to see, after the evening, being an ace. I was a savior to nothing; the lowest wrung working for condition in a middle thinking. I was dressed to walk across the carpet, red, dead red, filled with bars, and hot cars, like the moron and his, rhyming, moron magnificent whinnying guitars, for the chicks, because its all bull, shit hollow as wood doing anything it could, to put it together to make again with a herpes diseased slit. My head everywhere, I was out the door, with my pockets full like an Eagle Scout soldier.
I was back into Trumpy again to run, dead crimson red into the moonlight, balls to the stars, winds to my horses stride. I was demi-window down, faded light praying to the dashboards of meatloaf, running my black lithe warrior, with the stone in hand, burning simple soil. I was amidst the trucks changing from lane to lane, reaching and gliding with power, and mercy on none. I was down in the valley from the highs of my watchtower beyond-ness. I drove like a man with no pine, no possession, I drove quietly to myself, I drove dangerously close to the pavement, I moved from my simple uneducated collegiate place to her, southern suburban veranda on the river, down south, the Mississippi, and Minnesota converging upon forts of expansive brave brilliant times, pioneering days. I was on my way to her house, but to the florist first. I stopped in old St. Paul, and at one of the mansions on the hills of James Jay. I took my trusty silver pocket knife, sliced seven lucky blood red roses, and ran to my trusty stead. I had slightly mutilated the stems from inadequate equipment, but the roses had the heart and poignancies to survive. I laid the chanced plant life on an old sports page newspaper sitting in the back of my car; I roughly wrapped them and drove for her door.
I was miles from her, thinking about her, and how this calamity began, this date, the date, any date. I was lost in a sea of canabliss, I was out there. Out there in the universe of infinite propositions as a chance, in an infinite boundary of options, I was thinking about one. In a total crap shoot of gritty survival of a horrid fittest, was an inspiration, a universe of something so unholy. I fell into a hole, an enigmatic world of deranged infused catatonic eunuch potted love. I saw an earth born, a cosmic whimpering child of rock tortured by unforgivable burning sadistic life, day after day punished by violent rays of hell amongst the scarring pound of craters. I saw the first, a little princess, of the fire gods, a little twinkle in earths motherly palm, a little tiny rope swinging, summer dress giggling, darling be damned single cell of sheeted innocence, amidst sulfur, hell, and brimstone mixing, mixing all around.
I rode past dying princes and dying paupers, streamlined sanctuaries of dead natives, but I kept dreaming of the beginnings. I was witnessing the first miracle, a few little strands of dire inhibited stone, mineral, enzyme, nutrient, sugar, carbon, conjuring a working cell. There were pretty girls everywhere, but none like her, there she was with little yellow daisies etched on her cotton white flexing dress, the world ripping its soul towards never ending hope. I saw it as it was, some dumb fucking idea, life, one dumb chance encounter with success, and an earth opening her arms to children, tilting her angles to her bastard parents, Earth giving the keys to the castle to the upstart little girl.
One thought with imagination, and one cell with an imagination, thats how it becomes, dreams built upon dreams, success expounding upon success. If I only had 94 lives, or a million dollars for teleportation, something for the grandeur, highway lives springing from the earths womb like bacteria in a Petrie dish. I saw it all, good ole Earth, not wanting the lives of her other bastard siblings, deciding to give her soil, her lot, to the livers. Earth deciding to give her heart to the fireflies in the night; flowers of a fleeting season, deciding to give a bastion to passing dreams, the grain of sands upon a beautiful astral beach, souls with purpose. I saw Earth become mother and fall in love with organized energy bundles sheltered in compartments of elemental structure. Mama writing some 4 digit code, DNA, some crazy carbon organic chemistry, like blankets for the teething infant existence. Like safe passage through a canopy of leaking flushed forest in the darkness of moons, little Mama Earth allowing life, she allowing passage, and the fate of time. Simple as it was, Mama Earth was selling her soul for the facets of her children, as there is always a price; I saw her paying her price, someone needing to be her bellows and give her the gift of birth because nothing creates purely on its own.
Lucky Father Time, as visible as air, the giver, earnest but fated, impregnating Mama Earth with his wills, and fates. He was stealing her virginity with loving eyes, and telling her, her children would be born, and doomed to the restraint, knowing beginnings, and ends, but everything is going to be alright baby. He fating his difficulties, his curse a costly price for some, a mothers willing sacrifice she thought, fading children and all, flowers from spring to the frosts fall. Mama Earth holding true to a belief that with infinite souls, all lives would be infinite and realizing her finite curse, being infinite in finite space. I was wondering if she knew a little girl eventually became a village of massive numerical jargon inspired search engine frenzied numbers. A giant village to become, succeeding upon thought, and inspiration, stumbling upon religion, and alienation.
I loved a girl in a Monte Carlo once, same thing, first as a little girl, alone on a world, smiling at rainbows, tripping on stars, growing, sprouting like a seedling in wet soil, like a proud feather on the cap of reproduction. The little girl of civility aged and complicated with the pushes of change, other, and demands. The girl growing lanky, and fertile, rangy, and curious. The very first cell finding an independence to make love, to sexify the seasons, she, finding an earth to nurture upon, a tree to make a nest, the little girl becoming a bare nipple towards a mouth, an inner thigh towards thunder, an endless sky towards eye contact. There is so much life. Everything living for the sunshine, the rain, the carbon, and the fucking; everything fuckingfuck-ing. Reproduction the fertile woman upon her proud steady matriarchal earth, now long into the calm of ages, the wearing of the cosmic tooth. Stabile and fastened, the solars accepting an epoch, to which I was entrenched for just a glimmer, doomed to die at some point.
Quiet harshness abounding, road rage, life pushing on, cursed by the timer, death needing to be crowned. A war waging, the curse of energy bundles and mother earths cherry against the virtue of infinite oomph, and the value of fleeting vitality verve. I drove up to her apartment of ivy, and metaphors, and knocked on the door easy enough. She answered the door in just a towel. Wake up.
I was walking to her door waiting for the answer, footsteps approaching, a knob turn, and boom, no backing out, be damned either way right. Sam, was pretty. She was pretty, always. I looked squarely at her pleasantly surprised, and held the screen door open as she proceeded to usher me into her apartment, her girlish lodging. The walls were painted, some queer brave color, not quite pastel ignorance, more like velvet dalliance, certainly velvet dalliance. Her apartment was comfortable, full, almost too lush of merchant dapples, and clutching paraphernalia fitting for her circus walls. The apartment smelled seductively marooned, honestly seductive, she was honestly seductive, powerful, temptive, gangly strong, communitive, earthen, gusty, and always pretty. Sam was her apartment to a point, a mountain with valleys of nepenthe green, Kelly from the emerald isle, Irish drunken green. Sam seemingly was just like every girl, joyous and understanding, but still happening to cry; still breaking like a little sundress ditty, tearing up at some scheduled point, on a rough, rough mountain near the coldest point in hell, the girl still broke, like we all do some days.
I was flying like a feather, high as helium without control, rising like an eagle on the unsettled wings of swift kicks, out of the nest into the diving fresh waters of merciless fish, salvation as fish, not the Jesus fish, more so the nutrients of healthy clean protein laced with mercury from the plucked heavens, the scope of candor upon the natural cycle. No religion here, only loony souls. I was praying to god without knowing it, I was in the moment, entering her apartment, handing her my patchwork roses. The roses were dank and ruby, flushed and larger than anything store achieved, palm sized, nurtured gardened blossoms of fertile arrogant stark reproduction, like wholesome glory. She looked at the roses, robbed, and criminal, and smiled. She smiled, a simple fateful grin, and kissed me on the cheek, mixing in what I think was a full-grown giggle. I was in no hurry and nether was she; I was as patient as forever. We were just lying around, bouncing nodes about the cosmos, our mothers, and her sexual appetite. She was subtly chirping like a spring cardinal, about her sexual appetite.
I absolutely love getting my neck bitten she said
So, you are avampire I responded
You have the sexiest lips, their neither puffy, nor thin, they seem so versatile, like they can be anything they want to be. She quickly responded, as if my words were non-existent
When I die next week, I think I want to be re-incarnated as both a Sequoia and a Mormon, so I can put all the good wood to workI love bigamy. I said
I talked to Mike and Sara from work, and they said they are all going out tomorrow night, do you work, I dont know it might be something fun to do, just go to uptown or something. She said, words dribbling like shit from her mouth
I am probably the greatest thing since pre-lube rubbers and ice cream. I said, clarifying that I could shit from my mouth as well
We should probably get going. She said, ignoring seemingly every word I uttered
Trumpy, cleaned, and harnessed ran us in elegant brave ways. I obsessed about her my car; my date dug the soul she somehow saw in the radio, somehow in me. She rambled about dark worldly incantations, like road rage; I thought about sex, pure attention span deprived sex, my all so impulsive, all so male pattern. The road felt deft to my plan, the air in the whims whishing pitches of blues, not the musical kind, the colored kind, the visual enjoyment of seeing without eyes, seeing in moments as a function, a function of something. We were on our way to a nice smoky tasting, smoke free, burnt wood little patio spot, my secret weapon, a little Stillwater river trail. I was thoughtlessly reveling in her voice, the radio,
Do you think it is possible?
What is possible? I said, drifting back to the here and now
Love at first sight. She pined
Not really. I said.
Oh thats horrible. She retorted
It is possible; anythings possible right, anything. I said forcing a smile, losing hope in her, and stereotyping women as solely an overdrawn pattern of fairy tale pornography.
I was ambivalent, and reticent, wealthy in my roses karma, heavy with silent content. I was a clam, a gigantic ocean clam with a monstrous waxy shiny lovely pearl. The air smelled like, wet carved limestone, the northern clean etched river below the leafy banister of breaks. We climbed out of the car, her tapered firm neither long nor short legs tripping over a skirt, plucked perches holding womanly change. Black, dark as unknown, dark as dirty deluge, black, her skirt was black, just her wrapped black hole, the skirt. I smiled into her eyes, hazel to industry, and flecking for North Dakota prairie grace, and smiled to the browns of amber delight, her waves of majesty, only just a little glance into her painted church like glass, a tip of an iceberg, a lifetime of lottery ticket luck, some lovely stage door joyful explanation of trepid individualismI grabbed her hand, after opening her door, she was pretty, always. I made some stupid remark about half bent light, she told me it was cheesy, and stupid to talk about mood lighting, I told her, to me, it matters,
I like half bent, crazy lights; they remind me of cameras and movies and natures cinematography, the metaphor of nature framing itself in
Bull Shit. she said, playing her trump card
I am being honest. I retorted, feeling altruistic amongst my genital company.
You are a sucker.
Of course. I said bashfully smiling, lying, I am not even going to try to lie about thatI cant help it, who isnt?
Ummm. She muttered
Plus, in this half bent, cheesy light, you look really hot, like ten times hotter than before, almost hot enough for me to like you, almost.
Almost, huh. She said smiling
I was amidst the musings of my past excitation, courting work magically given, deeds being dirt cheap, the touching of orifice, the question,
What would her lips be like? It was answered in the entrance of Marxs bar and grill, my location of the succumbed woo.
Her breathing was clean, and I was kissed briefly with a tasting sweet cling, light tannin, the air was profound, herbal crusted, stirring embers of wooden fire roasted pizza, martini violence, disenfranchised appraisal. I watched a few couples chat their passion pulsation at the bar, victims like people to legislation, the people on a pulpit of systemic laboring differential articulations dictating blindly, the who, what, where, when, and why, oh yeah, how too, how to install some damn dumb doohickey, fuck the doohickey. I was so drunk, along with life, I almost did not even notice. I was in the charms of beast, the teat of drunken merry lovings, the nipple of a calling, the nurturing sweet milk to accompany the cookie, the pleasures of splendid candid effortless glee, getting what I wanted, a big glass of soaking, supple, vitamined feeling breasted. I was a welcomed pariah loving breast milk like a baby of cultural diversity, I was suckling the marrow of it, I was talking, she was chatting, and we were conversing, coercing.
I walked behind the sexy Samantha after the mater-de welcomed us, and led us to our reserved back table, her confident strut, wiggling a little something for free zippers. Sexy Samantha was a dee-vine delinquency of delicacy, a busty girl, she was buxom, and cute, button cute, wrinkling her little nose, freckled just lightly, framing her absolute need for no makeup, her beautiful lush tanned skin, her framed bright popping eyes, filled upon cherub lifted cheek bones revealing dimples. I was caught in everything, every detail, relaxing and falling deeper into how deep is the rabbit hole, where does the game end, where does this night end, where does it ever end.
I climbed into the booth after Sam; she touched my thigh gracingly, smilingly as I pulled into the spot next to her. She looked me square into the eyes, hand gently, warmly on my whiskered washed jeans, my thigh, so close to my panic button pushing ever closer to sending up an alarm, intensity in ten cities. She leaned forward, with closed obvious eyes, and peppered me, she peppered my lips with something fresher and more tingle numbing than Berts beeswax chapstick, and Burts Beeswax chapstick, tingles and numbs, thank god for menthol. We kissed, she fell in love, and the kitchen was working my harvest into consumptions burgeoning boudoirs.
Food. I was jumbled in juniper berries and fragranced mineral spirits. I was agile in the moments of ravishing fulfillment, my 10 oz of cow, my just over half a pound of cow loin, tender meaty, barely cooked, kind of rare flesh, muscle, thread after thread, nerve attached, moving, gyrating manipulating muscle. She was three feet deep in salmon, Yukon River salmon, some remote small stretch of flushing canyon traipsing riverbed in which scores, throngs, armies of bright flashing salmon run for every single hope of their animalism. I was enjoying the processes of financial mankind, the desecration of resource to achieve product, the userism in the consumerism, the waste in the horse hooves paste. I was knee deep in her soul, telling me about the struggles of being so damn dumb, and pretty, always.
I love the Beatles.
You do? I said
Oh my god, I think they are so unbelievably great. She said, as she seemingly nearly pissed herself
Only I said
Smart ass, what is your favorite Beatles song? she fired back
How did you know I like the Beatles I said with furrowed brow, Anyway, favorite songthats like picking my favorite movie, there is always a top ten with a thousand movies in it, and the Beatles music is the same thing, always changing tastes for me, so diverse.
Okay, right now, top five. She said
This moment. I said
This exact moment. She said
Okay, I say Revolution, Rocky Raccoon, Dear Prudence, Why dont we do it in the road
Why dont we do it in the road, isnt a Beatles song. she demanded
White album, Ill bet you another date. I retorted, hook and line waiting for sinker
Deal, now the rest of the top five. She said
As I was saying, Something, is in my top five, Oh yeah, The End, always The End, see, this is what I told you, my top five runs forever.
I like ob-la-di ob-la-da.
You would, that song sucks. I said
It does not; its cute, and optimistically rare. She said
It sucks. I said, It is poorly written Yoko Ono bull shit.
Yoko Ono bull shit, pass or fail time, are you for Yoko or arent you. She charmingly clamored
I am totally for love, John Lennon found someone who made his heart whole, she was just the right amount of crazy, and weird for his crazy and weird heart, I am so love, all great things have to end, i.e. the Beatles. I think John did it right, he made himself happy, and left the world a better place; Id take it any day. I wouldnt take Yoko, Id take the life, you know happiness, etc
Yoko lover. She said smiling, Now shut up, for just one second, and kiss me, you token Paul fan, I bet you are a Paul fan too.
And you are not. I said He is only possibly the greatest melody making rock and roll songwriter ever.
Again shut up, and kiss me ..
Do people really say that I muttered with my last free breathe of the evening
I was kissing her again, by this time I had a sugary diminutive kiss flirt pattern all figured out, no more teeth, no more biting unless intentional. She was an ace, deft and flippant with her tongue, and full, and spectral with her lips. She kissed with different amiable irregular emotions, and she took turns leading, teasing, and playing coy, victim, being my beautiful. I kissed her with a myriad of previous knowledge, my current passion leading; we had discovered some innate rhythm. I was able to put every throw and step in its resolute place, my body was in a quixotic Satori, I was a samurai in his ordained course, for just these moments, these moments when things are hypothetically right. I was no where near what used to be my heart. My riff raff raft had set sail upon the waters of lambasted sunsets; I was a constellation of timing, peaking for just the summer moons courtesy. I was the burning bush, on fire because of matches. I was a passing flower in bloom. I was giving myself in, handing my keys to victims, and driving off cliffs of concurrent dates. I knew nothing would ever be this close to imperfect ever again, at least with her.
Is anything ever as perfect as those first few moments feel, no, just like nothing is ever as horrible as the last few moments? Nothing in a lifetime hurts as much as the shock of experiencing a heart break, just like nothing feels as right, as glorious, as a soon to be broken heart being wooed and welded, in the spattering of mergers. I was in the glorious phase of the knowing of Samantha J. Rainier. I was karma up in the cosmic fucking game of being manic.
I was flush, with Sam. I was seven steps higher up the Kiddush cup. I was a red wine to a dead grape, an aged saged well waged staged paged foraged courage. Sam was a girl, working her life forward, edged, and blind, criminal and resigned. Sam and I worked indirectly, bartender to server; I was a few drinks into salvation one mid-summer night, with her and the employee compatriots, and I asked her out. Simple as that, I asked her out, and she said yes. She didnt know enough to say no, and I didnt know enough not to ask. I was drunk, not quite stumbling, but loving every moment of inebriation, wishing my hopes through a filter of muddled indemnity. I was a man of perspective sitting in a quaint little small town river suburb bubbling the addictions of mental screws. I was as charming as luck, and she, Sam, was pretty, always.
Can I ask you an honest question. She said
Compared to a dishonest oneYeah sure, go ahead.
Why did you ask me out tonight?
Honestly?
Yes. She said
I could not think of any reason not to. Why did you say yes? I said, knowing it was because she had bigeyes.
I couldnt think of any reason why not.
Good, we have a nice balance of Taoism, two uncarved blocks.
You are so full of shit, I love it.
Thanks. I said
So now that dinner is done, what do you suppose we do? she said
A walk down by the river. I said
Id love to. She said
You sure are doing a lot of loving. I teased
You wish. Sam said slightly giggle slurring
I was arm in arm with no virgin olive oil. She was just a girl in all her inadequacy. She has hollow and trite. I rambled, and listened, first about crazy and then about sanity, about affliction, and addiction, about rings, and about summer flings. The cement staircase to river walking was three quarters flooded, murky and red like vegetable soup, a river of soup with wood flotillas seeking downward decadence, saw mill smiles. Her feet carried us down river to a small bench just past the common vista, she crossed her legs and sat down pointing her eyes up at me, falling to her level, my eyes hazed from dark nights, and half-bent river light. The cliffs and boats passing their own time along the under towing frightened river of bottom feeding industry, my eyes finding her waiting, pausing in total clock stopped perseverance for me, hypnotized we both muttered gibberish under the eyes of wondrous carp, a catfish with a sturgeons luck.
Tell me about the sweetest thing you have ever done for a girl. She asked
I dont really ever do sweet things for girls, maybe take them out. I said reeling in my line.
You are lying. She clamored
No I am not. I said
I dont believe you for a second, you already brought me flowers, you cut yourself, beautiful blood red roses, huge, it was so sweet, so sweet.
You are welcome. I said
We took turns drinking from my flask, whiskey, cold hard whiskey, the girl likes it rough, mash for the sweetheart. I drank from her lips the drips, and licked her neck with my Tennessee tongue. I asked her if she wanted to get high, she jumped like a school girl, she whistled some tune about a summer lost a few virgin sacrifices ago, she mentioned smoking on special occasions, something about hometowns and hookah caterpillar jubilation, if Alice wasnt in wonderland yet, she was soon a sweeter guitar, willing fret.
Hey, will you do me a favor. She said, put your arm around me.
Sure, anytime. I said, reaching my arms around her, she changing positions on the bench, half straddling me, half leaning on the bench, skirt so shortened, but just long enough, her bosom pressed into my chest, her eyes transfixed on mine, her freckles trying to match up with mine, fishing with bait.
I was amidst the stars in the sky, the ones farther from the city limits possessing their own weight, burdening the land with their unavoidable magnitude, pulling, begging society to be included, to be searched, to be worshipped, to be lore, to be without delay reminders of the simple reaches of a human effort. The street, rolling cars down across the bridge, connecting states, states of minds, and mostly taxes, holdings of dead days, lifetimes ago, the roads, Trumpy being there, the world, being watched by Trumpy and me, the roads as divisions, colonies, practices of humanity, under certain flags, larger republics united, and divided under smaller flags, other burdens, things so far from where I was.
I was the wick, and her a dirty red flame, shortening her skirt towards catwalk curtain calls, towards revelation of delightful bakery goods, little puff pastries of hand crafted workers, eloquent shame for daddies of daughters, taught a craft, her tongue cutting me apart, her hands molding clay. I was drunk and soiled, clean from bacteria; clean from the filth of grubby fiddled litter, dirty by diction, her hands, my hands, her viscosity, my viscosity. I was clutching her naked singular breast buried six feet into her, gnawing on the blue veins pumping frivolity into her carnivorous thirsty plume. Her claws were inches deep into my back, her skirt pushed tubular, asking to either be taken up or taken down, or left midriff rifted in some sleazy motel, or a park bench. She had a telephone call in her hand, my number; I had her grooming habits battling her riled affluence. Some things arent suitable for park benches. I was three seconds from finding the name to her lord and savior, when I decided; she deserved better, maybe a new god, maybe a new symbol to hang people from, a new sacrifice, a new bible, a new philosophy. She moaned the name of a vogue god of yesteryear, and begged to swallow my civilization; she moaned the name of many gods and tried to swallow a world war. We were naughty mice in the recreation basket.
I was fresh and unclean. She was fresh, a smile for a movie screen. She smoked a cigarette, and I skipped rocks, she asked if later tonight, I could prove my Beatles trivia, I smiled and obliged, distant now from the seminal pride of nature, of naughty little girls, me seeding the field, and running away. I was substance being bigger than will, my dick more important than the thrill. I was contemplating ending my night, stoned, beaten, and drained. I was thinking about her thick thighs, her wholesome North Dakota ass, her strategic air command bombers, smiling in a cleaver. I was thinking about her eyes, in a room just dark enough to see fire, just dark enough to see the flecks of sparks sacrificed into her as breathing takes on survival, as friction lubricates civilization in a tumbling down a hill like Jack and Jill for the twentieth time.
I was a man no longer thinking. I was a man. I was in my car with her, next to me, windows down, flying down, showing the cliffs things theyve seen from the birds of nests, and chicks. Trumpy drove destined to be somewhere, white eyes blank to the late season crme Brule on the societal desertion menu. Trumpy pushed the paved reflector redemption tar and feathers home, to a respite of gasoline free ecology. I kept my hands at the feeble ten and two, controlling nothing but my oxygen intake, my eyes rolling into the back of her throat, my antenna searching for a signal, earth to the lords of the watery moon, hello giant planet of the silver spoon, I have a message, prepare the gurney and the esophageal spittoon. She was not looking at the road we were driving, my hand was not always at ten or two, sometimes it went down to five oclock, and then sometimes off the clock, collecting overtime, the workers moaning over the effort needed. I played a fiddle in a country band, the radio as my karaoke, my hand in an instrument, familiar but not very musical, technical but sweet sounding only to an expert technician, the horn not blowing my valve, my binary function, needing reduction, I was driving, and she was giving me head. I was beaten by the whips of Jesus Christ, in her mouth, lashing my membership to a church of gods devotion, searching for words amongst her lips. She was moaning and lip smacking, I was morning, I killed the village needing to be raised, raised like hell in a gulp, a krill convention on the short bus to oblivion, thanks for playing boys, dont pass go, die mother fucker die. I was coming, home. Home.
The drive way, we parked in the drive way. Parking in driveways, driving on parkways, running noses, and smelling feet, I was thinking about not needing big feet to bottom out a boat, to stand tall, to park the world, the spin of homeward soldiers, Folgers for the morning, coffee, tea, and Sams ass in front of me. I was up the stairs, starring at my destination, my place, to embrace, to disgrace, to chase, to taste the faction of mellow, she lost and found, willingly sleeping with the noisiest of fellows, fellow ships, collections of vessels, vessels to ride motion like an ocean on a sea between her knees, I was opening the door waiting to tear her muffled stage a new reality, a principality between fair Verona. I stuck my key in the hole, kicked open the door to my place, she scampered to the bathroom, my apartment, dark by nightfall and clean, surprisingly amusing, forthcoming, and tidy, strident expression in quiet voices scattered along the walls, message in bottles of digging into the sand of thinking, the waves of remaining keen to the clues of life, the mysteries of history the meaning of beaming. I was fumbling the posse of thumbs, the burning incense that makes sense, and became tempted by her body, spackled by her demand, smelling of toothpaste, and burgeoning with incandescence. She was threading my needle, removing my clothes in the glowing odd lights of my bedroom, the yellow, the greens, the pharmacy of emotion in the bulbs of glee, her hands storming my castle, begging for my rook, sparing no pawn.
She was naked top to bottom, bare like a babe, like on a painting on the ceiling in a different land, breasted and cuddled. She needed no leafs of lush trees, she was degradation to the love of a lost Jesuit salvation, a mission of preaching wrongs; she was a free woman naked in my airs. My eyes had before them cruel moody blues, nights in white satin, orb white nights, suckling white on red, like blood on the tracks, steal barriers needing my beeswax.
She had me on my back, frailties thrown out like a mid summer manager fighting for the playoffs, tossed for going nuts, she with hands that knew where to catch the ball, me with hands that had graced a painting before, professional brushes full of pink. And then we hit it. Yes, lord bless and send us little angels into your pearly gates, as we have come thine blessed to devote adoration for a sequence of nerve senses programmed perfectly for the smooth, shaved wet evolution of butter, her voice was saying shit so perverse, her screams were opera, a goddamn symphony of death metal, a banshee on fire. I played the harp, and she owned a drum set. She was an epileptic cat, shaking for cult worship, heaving fathoms of sailing wind, rivaling the gentlemanly cherub on my map of unknown seas, my mind in no way shape or form prepared for the actions undertaken during the last forty minutes. I was in a martial art, a Kata of positions all focused on engraving a dead hoop for a lost abacus, she and I carved every ounce out of our mitochondria, as the bacteria in the air, and the pictures of Dylan on the wall, talked amongst themselves about half bent light, and pygmies, lost souls without a religion, fucking religion, and pygmies needing love to.
She kissed my neck with her hand wrapped along the other side, licking me wet, and biting me, thanking me, connecting me, boring a whole into my grams, 21 maybe, and counting. Her other hand was still holding the phone, never wanting to let it go, just in case someone called again, just in case. We were both too wasted by endorphins to care about wet spots, and the damn humid air, clinging to every molecule of brutal liquid. I was lying on my back, she on her side. I was not aware of my heart yet, and the disappointment she wasnt going to be able to get over. I wasnt readily cognizant or aware yet, that no matter how pretty she was, always, it wasnt going to be good enough, I knew I wasnt stricken by her, I was a man without an arrow, just a coca-cola, no Icarus in the deep for daring too high, nothing but phone calls, tearful tormented phone calls that she dialed, darkness not better than death, misery loving only a peniss company. I could try to love her, but it would be an excuse, I willingly was a rock sometimes broken against, a liar of an anvil, but tempered and struck none the less.
I want to fuck every waking second of your day away she said I want you to sleep with your huge cock inside me, so that every time in the night you get hard, it starts growing inside me, and wakes me, so that I can make you come, blood.
Okay I laughed back at her, thats it, I am disappointed.
Shut up and fuck me.
Thats not all I am going to do. I whispered, pulling her closed eyed cherub grimy jaw towards my mouth, thinking mostly of Steve McQueen, and how he would handle this, escape.
Is that the best you can fuck me she said, knowing I treated her to sodomy like multi-orgasmic acrimony.
I am going to get a coke, need anything
You are going to need ice cubes for your dick, when I am done. She said; back arched tits dangling like roaring lions on the face of some archaic castle, some gothic church of gargoyles and prayer candles.
I was to the kitchen with a waddle, red from the waist down, dripping, veins near the surface waiting to pressure burst, maybe bleed with a soul of an artery, a sprout of diction. I was to the lonely light fridge, a sputtering chassis of environmental waste, the fridge to me, some middle of Wisconsin eco-waste roadside methlab. I grabbed a coke, top to bottomed damn near the whole thing. I was a handful of ice cubes into a cup, and dramatizing, willowing my luck, my night. I was walking back to a prairie, a badlands of gallant sunflowers acting in the stead of homesteaded carpet, a mud hole era in some kind of history, a hysteria, a mystery of why sex could be mind blowing, and emotions remotely controlling, unlike the falling love pit of burning for hopelessness, to which I would die for and of, crazy blood, boiling point lunacy, heart attack revelry, star fire forest flamed ashes, Icarus again, no chariot for Elijah, no cup to over floweth, just motley wings and a hope of glue.
I was raped, absolutely raped, getting punished by her never ending hunger, like she had never eaten a single morsel, like she had just spent time camped away with all the train delivered starving little boys and girls that had their hair chopped off, and their humanization gaseous stripped, she ravaged my tree, like the Swiss family Robinson, setting up forts, and swings, a playground for candy cane cocaine hotel room adulteration, her epiphany of extrapolating anything I might begin to mutter, I breathed, she breathed harder, I gulped, she ate my fucking throat. I was sworn by some angel that some demon said there was a succubus on the loose, but I must have not listened. The windows saw my ass, the carpet soaked my pain, the ceiling began to cry, and scream why god why, why must he die to this nymph, why must he die, they were loyal my room, I was begging for mercy, and they decided to take up my cause, friends like dogs, like boys from the way back then, ah yes, my radio, and my showermy shower. I was on my way to a saving grace of a shower baptismal, all that sin must be washed, all that sin, must be washed.
I was in the back of my mind, contemplating motorcycles in love, the wavelength short enough to slide under the door, the option inconceivable until you are there. I was thinking about how another man explained love as home, a hug feels like your world is with you. Love is home, love is a sleeve, Zach. I was blind in the fog of some thought, somehow the shower being a beacon of changing mental waves, mental electricity, alpha beta, and a shower knob, again with the phone calling her. She bracing my crotch like a pet owner holding their pooch, I was almost beaten into love. I didnt think, ever, again, never her. I was in a moment; I was always in the moment. I was jumping a race like a Jamaican bobsled spliff, a blazer in the furnace and her lips tugging at me again for something like communion, maybe my flesh as bread, maybe my blood as wine, my soul eaten in a beer bong, as in a breathless bong, a smoke inhalation into her mouth. What I had left, was in her belly, waving to Mickey mouse as memories faded into allegory, as systems blended into transcending incandescence, she cut my hair, she bathed me, she fed me, I made her laugh, I made her look at god with even eyes, sometimes crying, sometimes coming, sometimes crying and coming, a few weeks upon unfortunate prophecies of levitation and hopeful astral extrapolation, She became my firefly symphony, and I died in grasses chilled like white wine burning in my nose, pagans jealous, the lord ambidextrous, pivoting revelations like an apostle on sabbatical, joy uncanny, control not allowed, just blind blends of paint, brushes fruiting tenderness, I knew her womb as the only great voice preaching harmony like poetry, deafening my senses by breaking them into galaxies and stars like pathological lies, too good to entice even the slightest of faith, but alas enduring, the grandest parade of contemplation, an autopilot of joy past the sun falling pacific, her pink eyelids the spider web strength of the holding back of my church, something I believe in as the meaning of life, being put in a ocean rock side chapel of glass washed sea seasoned mystery, passion like sand, bliss like waves, worship like air, in every ether before Einstein and in every sexual thought before Freud, dying like pilgrims, slim and barren needing only each other as sustenance eating our engulfing souls because no other task seemed grand enough, seemed precious enough, peculiar overrated love, as the only expression for the flash, love as cooing, blankets as bedding, her breathe as a monastery of cherishing virtue slain by cavernous vines, wilting flowering hallucinating tangible glory.
I was asleep in the shower when she came and got me, turning the knob, and toweling my wet head into her breast. I was worn and faded, broken and raped, a husk like a corn cob messiah, a twister shy of Texas. She dried me, kissed me sweet, and sang my brown eyes deeper into her heart.
It was never even. I knew it. She, I thought she knew it, and in turn lied to herself. I lied to everyone, but myself. I slept dire in her arms. I slept tight in her purgatory of a perfume, alluring but shy, almost unachievable heights, hawking eyes seeing into the radiating blues, the fiend on his pipe, and his strings telling me her hands want to glue themselves to my fortunate son. She was happy just eating me, devouring anything she could find, morsels and hip bones traded for weathered ashes and average pussy. I was scared of feeling real, repeating in my head phrases like my soul isnt for sale, or things like, I would rather waste my life, than be with her; I knew I was committed to nothing in her soul, drawn by no magic but allure and revocation, but still scared because she kept me so very weak.
I was lying. It was the morning; I was rested and bright abnormally early, but restored and firm, maybe nine, maybe mid morning. I was clearing the crap out of my eyes, puff left a magic dragon in my psychedelic last night, I was cartons of cigarettes away from lung cancer, too much pot from healthy. I wasnt a smoker, I was soft headed, pleasant, and feathery in bed, rogue and rambunctious, my telephone set to vibrate, her ass on my blushing eyes. I was wetting a whistle for a train to play a sweet banjo song, do me, do me, do me, harder, do me, do me, do me harderoh, I am coming, god.Oh my god, I am coming, do me, do me, do me , dooooooooooo.
I was thinking of risky business and Rebecca DeMornay on my dick, her little sexy muff, rocking into his soulless dick, on a real train. I was a morning star. I was ironic in that, I was in love with her with my dick in her, I was a highly active quark, I was anti-matter, I was an anti-quark, I was gravity excited, I was any of the force particles as a unified field theory. In the beginning I was with butterflies and god, and probably meditated my heart to believe that anything going this fast must be Jesus on a silver saddled horse, black leather the only sign of clothing, her pierced nipples poking out my eyes, her clit toying with every third thought, I wanted to feast on her with designation of saving nothing for ambiguity, I figured I had her figured out, solved, her stupid anonymity, breaking her into some definition of sex I did not need to beg for. I was a mockingbird singing pseudo-love, for the time being.
But goddamnit it was a crowded room, and it felt like I was amongst every ghost, I was in my own hell, the epiphanies of ecstasy burnt white whispers, mirrors on the ceiling selling black murder rape, She stole from me children, I loved it like a fountain to a hydrogen leech. I was happy in the sunlight from the windows above, my view overlooking a small terrace, and then downtown in the oft distance, I saw my ivy walls outside breathing a shield for the living inside, I was staring at the television barely whispering but to the fucking mutes, scream why dont you, because. I was not an angel. I was a tangle of perfume, must and religion, tasting more like lemons then a church aide; you couldve called it a tasteful porno mag, no fluids but velvet and sea monkeys, honesty and two weeks.
I was thinking about how if things were like this forever I was willing to call my days over and my lordship passed, given circumstance benevolently blessed and retired of anything but death as a masons blade shy of happiness, a workings nearest, but temptation fortuitous, methods granted, glory succumbed. I watched television and sports, and thought about killing myself. I watched sports, a child of all grand games, a savant of knowledge, a flavor of opinion, wisdom of eloquence, the domestication of gaming. She snuggled and I prayed to my god, sports.
I think I came nine million times, her maybe 26 trillion in a little over 2 weeks, not including the moments that she couldnt remember. I didnt ask, I imagined a tally bead and string contraption on my bed post, taken off a golf bag, tallying, or at least thats how I felt, losing myself in her for a couple weeks, enough moments to help clarify why I dont do dating. I, the flame, and them the moth, I, a blow torch, and them the hummingbird, I, the napalm, and thempalm tree shaded Charlie.
Sam was nice enough to call me everyday for the next month, until I was avoiding her calls, maybe 7, maybe 10 times a day. I was praying she wasnt pregnant, knocked up, from then on, Me a father, from then on me stuck dealing with Sam in one capacity or another, but luckily, she just wanted to cry, and scream about how much she wanted me, and needed me, and how much she thought I wanted her, and I needed her. I was running from a psycho, with my penis luckily attached, and my fate laughing serendipitously at my ego.
I was confederated to a lonely virtue, and set to be my own man again, the moment she told me she loved me, three days after the first date. I was unable to respond with my heart, and refused to grow old with her, a woman who wouldnt catch a ball, or watch Twins baseball. I wasnt even going to give her time to try, or answer, I logically irreparable and resigned broke North Dakota empty on my vitreous sanctum. I was hoping she would find my flaws, or maybe she would want to delay inevitable bubbles burst too soon, mourned like a rock on grave.
So you just want to fuck me, and leave me. She screamed, You are a fucking loser
I shouldve listened to Sarah and Mike from work, they told me you were a fucking liar, and that you were no good, and an asshole, a fucking asshole, they said you treat people like shit, I fucking hate you, I fucking hate you, walking into my life, and fucking it up, what a solipsistic narcissistic arrogant small dicked piece of shit, I hope you die you weirdo mamas boy.
I am the best thing thats ever going to happen to you I said and hung up, knowing I uttered the only real lie I had ever told her, a little white lie.
I was freely aware of how lucky I had just been, imagine if I would have given her the clap, or some other strange disease, some incestuous pleurisy, or vermin infestation, possibly herpes, hopefully something, I was free, fucking gloriously fourth of July free, and lonely, cocky with my cock safely attached, and magnanimously on my mind, like Confucius sayman with hand in pocket feel cocky all day long. I wasnt worried about a thing, not the bills, not my sense of being lost in a giant rat race, not the incredible stupidity of the world, not my brash sense of rubbing people the wrong way, nope, I felt better than a post thanksgiving dinner shit.
I was sitting at my place, the television blaring about Hollywood, my mind subconsciously wishing for subtle fame, within the same breathe despising the shallow frankness of our pseudo-royalty and their overtly superior opinion, their perversion, possibly their instrumental idiosyncratic lost sense of reality, the world at an uncomfortable ease, overabundant like melancholy, the sun was shinning, half bent light was reflecting off the apparent cloud of dust in the air, it was like the rings of Saturn for fleas, and mites, heaven to allergen, I was lost in the concept of superfluidity, and photons and bosons, and Bose sound, wondering if they mixed. I felt stone simple, and pure.



As a child I would stare at nothing
But past
History
Repeating like cucumbers

To women
Who for the love
Of god
Want heavy machinery

Like sociology
That I
Regarded
As practical water under a bridge

Game
With elderly
Memories
Flooded Like childhood

Fleeting
Firework
Sugar
Induced epilepsy

Strobe light
Masturbatory
Pear
Tannin

Hermaphroditic
Blossom
Mutton
Wretched vitamins

On the counter
Mistaken
For Fred Flintstone
Cyanide

The rub
To lose days
For sin
And blush

Flamingo
Flamenco
Dire
Fandango

Pink parcel
Purchased
And Holy Roller
Thrown away

Vomit
Emitted
Yeast
Bait

Mouthed
Like communion
And crap shot
Kowtow



Fur lips

The whole has swallowed me
Gum chewed
Shoeless
Like Jesus

Blown
Bubbles
Racing
After helium

Swizzle
Straw
Laughing
Like munchkins

In-between
Oedipus
And his breakfast
Club

Prophet
Tearing
Dropped
Childish wish

So well
As I hurt
To know
Nothing but

Mr. Shadow
Looming
To react
For we only fear

Catastrophic
Ecclesiastic
Rhetoric
Impregnated

Underground
Subliminal
And
Satiric

If only
The dim
Wits
Knew

The world
Is a giant
Egg
We create

Over complication
Ass-birthing
Mastication
And slander

War
Envy
And
The hormones

Wanting the veronal
Belly aching
Mensal
Menthol

Spiteful
Cat
Woman
Attach



Sunflowers on her dress

The sunshine peccant sunflowers on her dress
Smile agape
For no great Ape
Renting

A sky blue strung Medal of Honor
To own her
Humid
Summer

And purring chassis
Late fifties
Chrome fender
White wall courtship

When
Oh when beauty
Like lipstick cherry glamour
Danced in socks

Making more
Out of out
Star gazing
Overlooks

Backseat felt
Anniversaries
Bottle beaten
Into oblivion

Those constellations
Mooned
Moon
Lost

Like Apollo
On the harp
Or was it radio
Immortelle

Faded Anabaptist
Romeo
And Juliet
Youth

Pondering
The apothecary
And his renowned
Friendship

When love
Kills
A million
Eves

Stork stoned
Strobe light
Baby making
Bygones


I don't get enough comments to make this shit worth it..at least as seperate articles...I feel like the pieces feelings get hurt.so...I am going zenhell klepto....One big thing.


Incant me
A star
Little birdie
With orange cheeks

Yellow suspender
Charm
Like crickets
To buddy holly

Hiccup serenades
As ideal
To me
As Sunshine

And liquor talk
Lullaby
Naked
Plutonic

As perpetual family
Without sin
Or
Alibi

Cake
All covered
In Cooing
Marzipan

Bird droppings
To fruit
Fly
Maggots

Reproducing
We
Are
Magnanimously

Billion
Spoke
Howling
Wolves

The parrot
Cock
A teal
Female

And me
Like lamprey
Wine
Suckling

Orgy
Watchers
Wishing
Angels

At least she is
An angel
Like a pixie
To a fool

Before antiquity
Knew
Greek
Metaphor

Under the sky
Short
On the earth flat
Running away

Depression
But a used
Popsicle
away


Mas.............Save Dauphin

I
Like
Omen ominous
Green algae
Pop my eyes
In ode
To the bull
Of methane
Shitty muck
Silly war
Cries

He
Possesses
Lilith
Like Lesbian
Fancy lap
Pleasing poser
Erotica

We are
On this
Night
Old neighborhood
Stickball
Chums
Singing
Delinquent
French

Meand him
And the miserly sweet
Commodore
Cosmic
Computer running
Us blessed
Given Judas

To inebriate
Hobnob
Hobbledehoy
Silver seconds
Like
A moon
Nexus
A Nereid
Suicide
Girlish

Alaswe
Pickled
Fairy tales
Dangling
Masturbate
Princess
Pornography
Holy
Deluge
Swung

And the victims
The wide eyes
Wishing blind
Violence
Beg gospel
Fritter
Forgiveness
Amongst the laughing
Skinny sin

Songbird
Widow
Hummingbird window
Radical
Sport fucking
Deadly Sugar
High mountain dew
Cocoa
Privy birds

Ohgod
And dear
Water balloon
Eyed
Crooner
Keeping
My secret
From the sexless
Wife

Decked
In arrogance
I stand
Bowed
To your
Darwinian antiquity
Pimping
Like I wish
It was easy
Being suited
Like you

This eve
And fauna
Of holm
Lost
In lenis
Kissing feet
And paying
A demirep
Solely
Song

I
Like
Jealous
Butterflies
Migrate
But not you
Pal
You poisoned fool
Bull frog
French
Dauphin

To rot
With dignity
Fat as a spring lilac premature ejaculation
Upon water bug
Skipped stones
Romantic
Lazy
Berry
Indulgent

My kingly bard
Bog
Swimming
Hustle
Hollering
Thwarted
Ancient
History
Knowledgeable
Milking the air
For first breathe
And a number one single

It aint easy
Being
Baby
It aint easy being
In Love
Baby
It aint easy
Being
Me

It aint easy
Being
Baby
It aint easy being
In Love
Baby
It aint easy
Being
Green

Baby, baby, baby
It aint easy being me
And being
In love
Baby
In love
And being me