Perhaps---Pathetic wanderings in lonliness one
Lonely-----Lonely in heart without sun
Exhaust---Exhaust in intellect reeking
I see-------I see a lie, a lack of any sum
Catalyst---Change remain mum
There's just nothing like walking through the backroads of a rustic old town in the rain.
Nothing rivals it, except maybe wandering through the deserted aging warehouse/cannery district of a rotting metropolis like SF.
Maybe it's the smell of the rainwater soaking into the old rotting timbers or the old tar smell of the road which the rain magically brings to life again.
But the rain is an integral part of it all.
Drip drip drip, and it's all comming to life; like some supernatural elixir trickling down to where the spirits are lurking within;
Reincarnating them to live for a time in the shadows. You can feel them then, if you have a soul, there's a depth of feeling that transcends the senses;
Surrounding and enveloping you, adding multiple layers of time until the density becomes almost palpable.
Whoever thought that old tar and rotting creosote soaked timbers could hold lifeblood within them?
But it's more than that; more than the rusty iron railings and smooth rail tracks.
There is a tangible residue of things done and times past here. There's a warmth of human blood.
There's a feeling of things accomplished and an assurance of continuance. And lurking beneath it all:
The strong thoughts of someone before seem caught in the chinks and cracks of the walls, teasing to be thought again;
To be recycled in the places that bore them.
Sniff snip stick-shift shlock,
Shuddering schlong-slobbering, salutitious Saracen's soul-smattering snatch-scathing salubrious saponification....speed!
Masticating mindless mandibles meticulously matriculate mindless masses, mandating more classes. Fat asses, seat plaster, faster faster fornicate...
Love lost, spines tossed, what the cost, look who's boss.
Halitosis Hallelujah, How the Hell are ya!
Spectral expediency want more wait and see...
Serve it up, swerve it up, stick it up, slick it up.
Nothing else matters.
World-whacking, mind-cracking, ass-jacking, shit-sacking,
Lip-smacking, fresh packing.
Wal Mart, war world,
Internet porno, little girls.
Wise-cracking ass-smacker Constitutional hijacker.
Crack-smoking whore-poking, hometown loser mind-rot boozer.
Camelot, came alot, who got shot, compost pot.
Transsexual hermaphrodite, Natural Born Killers, Michelob Lite.
Plaster-caster, alabaster, Masturbator of Disaster.
hooks for hands sitting smiling smoking passes the joint from metal hook to fleshy hand his box of false flowers resting on expensive coffee table. he goes outside and is home for a while, and he smokes in his house but keeps it meticulously clean inside the outside of his home and back in my living room assholes spew out words while outside inside his house hooks for hands sells false flowers but speaks the truth for free
the blurred vision distorts what is outside and not what is in but the light refracts and lies and what is in is not what is right bu it might get stirred and blurred and spat back at us, bad habits, and the things that are true just cigarette butts crushed under dirty ashy sole
take your pills swallow them whole and hold them in your stomaches fist fast and strong and pull them down deep into the well of your soul and let ‘em go
words…..why why why so many floating searching seeking falling tripping slipping groping feeling stabbing cutting blunting crushing killing all around like smoke it smells like the thing it used to be and swirls around itself making patterns breaking rules taking fools along for a ride up up up and around through and out without knowing seeing hearing glaring starring till the cloud is just dust falling and calling scalding and balding the surface of everything we see
one two three four my number is three but what’s it for, some system of three like one two three three plus one three plus two three plus three three plus three plus one three plus three plus two three plus three plus three….arbitrary names for things we call numbers and we all have one
The sky is the ocean above
our little lobster heads.
The waves of clouds create,
the waves of clouds move to make
the wind and the sea bed.
Formations of rock and stone
from the surgical whisp
whirling and swirling
fumbling and twirling
as it whistles through and around my head.
Feelings of harsh sincerity
harsh reality and
harsh naivety rush to me.
These feelings, they rush right through me
consuming all of what I thought I knew.
Consuming all of who I thought to be true.
Now I am left swimming here,
and crawling here, in this ocean of atmospheric pressure.
It relentlessly keeps pushing itself down on me.
My shoulders ache, my head aches, and my stomache screams.
I don't think my compulsions or my
could have kept me from something so
emancipated and inhumane.
This distraught loss I feel I have suffered
is now a new awakening.
My life is nothing but materialistic.
I thought these things had meaning and purpose,
but what is purpose without a soul?
It's a vicious cycle with my footprint stamped in time.
From a single seed I grew,
now 5 feet 8 inches tall
and left with an empty soul.
Degredation stemming from the 11th hour.
It is our time now to shine.
This generation of ours so behind.
Industry came on the e-train
and the time has come for it to go again.
Deep within I have found another way to be free.
It's this bright light that shines so deep into my eyes.
Blinded by this path of perfection that I had to be.
But this light, with it's scathing little intricacies
and delicasies and in-for-malities.
Inside we must learn.
Inside we must grow.
Inside we must follow.
This little winding road, that twists and turns
until silence overcomes.
We must watch as the ground below us slowly dissolves away,
slowly spreads itself and connects in so many forms.
Staggered little dots creating this painting of the big picture.
We have no idea where the earth and sky meet,
there is no line beneath my feet,
and this... rocky path.
My fingertips extending into this
distant whistling ocean in the sky.
The clouds, like waves,
rumble and roll atop my head in my
push the button and go…no stopping
do the job built to do
designed to do
twelve-fingered freak entertaining at best
push the button and let’s see what he’ll do
family distraction, common bond, golden child link to humanity
dance, make us laugh, but don’t make us think
back back back now you twelve-fingered freak
push the button, start the machine….wake that motherfucker up
push it again I’m bored
eight leathery fingers and four leathery thumbs close tight around one soft throat, skin stained with black resin, fat strong fingers, scared, cut, bleeding, scabbed, used, useful…..push it again motherfucker, I dare you….pulls one arm back, slowly cocking, muscles tightening, bulbous, salty, years and tears of steel out at sea and they have no idea what they have on their hands now, chaffing hemp rope leathery black resign stained acrid skin around throat uncomfortable to the touch beyond the pressure alone…..every time you push that button, my son pays…..four fingers and two thumbs and the strong right hand balls up into hammer fist….
go ahead, push it again….I dare you….my son is standing right there behind me, take a good look at his face and push it again…it’s right there in front of you…all you have to do is push…..and…..laugh……and…….see what happens next….
…and with his tongue he pushes the Copenhagen tighter into his lower lip, and with a click click click he moves his head side to side and pop pop pop on his muscle of a neck and with brown dribble on his chin….how funny am I now?