Clattering chime mumbles as myriad breezes blow.
Clunk chitty chunk, clunkety clunk.
Numb noggin knockin' against knee,
Memories turned to dust and spider sacks.
Chug chug chug, hill thug inhales deep
Then smoke curls through lonely eye sockets.
"Wanna dance punk?" Spinning cord holds it for now.
Boo woo woo, old dog grumbles and farts,
Spasming, dreaming, pawing wood pile,
Fat tick still sucking as legs dissappear.
"Fuckin' bug!" Thick fingers pop it like a grape
And leave it dangling for amusement.
Greasy dust cakes old bike parts with years of intended use.
Lost lipstick case fills with dirt to adorn lips already covered.
Piney breeze stirs carpal strands to aimless tickling
While numb noggin knocks out of time.
can’t stop scratching itching bitching and calling out loud the pain in my brain bursting forward and out through never stilled eyes that burn like ice feels nice then itch and scratch and bleed straight through until skin becomes a burden constricting conflicting and it has to be removed
what happened when the sea swallowed me whole and salted me through slowing time and speeding events that shaped my life while I was preoccupied with fixing my shoes
Roving dark masses eat light,
Morphing procession never lingers.
Streamers flying, fat underbellies soaking up sound.
Spoon floating, canned heat...showing some, most not.
Shades to keep out the sheep.
Wet work for the pros fixes the intrepid and the soft.
Jam happy tune toys and bill loads tie most,
Buy and sex the rest.
Fly 'em low and test the works.
Freak the civs ha ha ha...
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