Even the Lazy Lizard

Even the Lazy Lizard Even the lazy lizard knows when not to beg, when not to emerge, from behind the hungry black rock of another dying hand, hopelessly clutching the mysteries of another sit-down, in the serene electric darkness; all of us tangled into a morphed city of outrage and fear, ensconced with a multitude of luminescent lost eyes, these sad and despairing souls that found ironic lucidity upon the shriveled faces of unspoken impulses, singularly positioned, as with all flora and fauna, inside the elevated cages of human degeneration. Even the lazy lizard knows when to creep and lunge when mere minutes mobilize to paralyze the go- systems, of squirming spasms under neon determinations, enveloped like dead moth-worms, spinning insanely, caught inside the smelly dank-eaten vomit climes, with lonely cemeteries looking for new souls to fill the holes. Now we can see the living rescues, the dying kiss-off’s, designed to dodge the fastest of the sky dirigibles, witless designs which know nothing about the dry tears in old glass ashtrays, from the bowels of old Bullocks in 1942 Los Angeles, and the hand-coffins with red, lipstick-marked cigarette butts, left there by aroused, perfumed women wearing white girdles; middle-aged spinsters seeking pearled mirrors inside the shadowy upstairs rooms amongst the statuary, and other obscene lotions, laces and leather goods, designed to conceal, expose, and hog-tie secret lovers. Even the lazy lizard knows when to lunge into the marsh fire, the incredible sea of burning, with dripping petals of licking flames, scorching nothing, and then everything, as with a woman’s thoughts, broadcasting boldly, as the only voices in the Savoy firmament, happy decompressions, with electric mornings of a rainy pain. I lie flat on my bed and I see the lost dead people, heaving their stilted silent voices behind a thousand closed doors, locked in with grief-stricken resignations next to silent clocks, that are, by transcendent instinct, deaf to complaints and alibis, told by hatless compassionate killers with pleated pillows poised to smother the floor lamps, and erase the rusty love-making episodes you and I had together, once upon a time, all those unzipped decades ago. Thanks for the larks, young lady, indeed. Maybe if the crusty clock has anything nautical to say about this tragic comedy, then, well, let it rant. I am done. Done as anything resembling a life lived. Done with this wasted begging and lunging in the dark. Done with writing this forgettable homage to all lazy lizards.