Technicolor imprints of a cabal
As it stretches elastic film strips
Across demarcated breaches
Each basted with a prejudiced turbulence
Barricades of trees
Affront lonely bent poles
Some of all eaten
By an abandoned smoke shuffle
Across the fields
Searching.
At nights, I lay on my back and shoot stones in the sky. They return to me as distant shooting stars.
Holding an old remorseful woman for ransom. For every star she saw. And she saw each one of them.
Rust paints the bright grey. The dull grey. Rust is pure.
A tenuous surreality clips bitter straws. Imitating the purple of the lips on a pipe. As 19 bubbles trapped in hookah smoke cry. Furrowed pieces of these clipped desires overflow, rake astray at night.
These desires puncture every pneumatic dream of the night. And take me to my roof.
Where I shoot stones in the sky.
And watch their shuffled affectation
While they rain fiction
Portions of conjoined us imbibe.
Do you write on pieces of paper? Tits and bits. Folded and torn at the edges. Nibbled by the creeping snakes of time into timeless curves resembling graphs of consummation.
Not that I have felt the perfect curves. I once saw a pretty girl run down by a truck in the rain. That was close. Closer than you think. It was.
Do you make excuses ever?? Like you like to watch the dust gather on a bleached page.
At times do you ever copy the latitude of words on to a computer. For you know the trash can at the corner, down the corridor is resolute in proportion to your parasitical inertia.
At times do you format what you had copied. In entirety. And feel the quiet smile of a lucky guilt rob you of your own.
Do you ever .. Smile. When you least expect your self of it??
They are rows from a couplet.
She calls them her eyes.
Clips of her eyes graze as they shut every time, electric sparks persecute the air. The electricity hums along the crevice waiting, to break in to the slurry cadence of silent sirens, a labile tube light fires at the bulletproof night.
She calls it noise.
Larceny of the lone blood red ink drop injected into the moon took place. The ripples spun away, scrolling the grievance of roadside trees, of open windows crashing into solid walls in the water there was.
Clock ticked, past its batteries. Memories unsure skipped, lanes of oblivion and time erasers. A waltz with a tense foregone at Mr. Clark's place but, still fosters a red lighthouse dipping into ink of the moon.
Fairway
nine holes
on the bed sheet--
cigarette matchplays.
Sorrow I
She is sad.
my phone quivers
at night.
Sorrow II
a jigsaw puzzle--
lost pieces of
her heart.
Sunshine Asphyxiation
The optimist--
a lawyer
to his god.
Down town at 7
I had to leave.
I basted the corner
of my eye
with the corner
of a decomposed edge trailing the weathered wall,
letting in the pinch
of wind
needled by the dismissive stare of
her un corked cold greased eyes.
Winters are chilling. No body
beautiful could like them.
I exculpate myself.
Imagination has the sweetest stings
of all. Liberation can be distressful,
a little bit.
I smile
my lily livered, fused smile
oblivious that "You look terribly horny, jerk"
a last night rebuttal
might have vestige traces of truth
somewhere.
