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Get Off The Cross, We Need The Wood

Scarcely the Dropper-- a roach antennae Felt, Some Maudling exterminator of nakedly inhuman hands. Boiled renunciation falling sick With life itself, For Libido has and Always Will Be…. the most Impersonal of instrument. Stepping out and through a purple sunset laying Slow across a grape country. The inflexibly dead palms of time are Callous and Infirm. They Cannot Hold Me. At the corner of toothless and filthy over-alls Fallen ones fat in the lack-need To Sell a Slim Body, Torsos Glistening in the Neon Anti-Night, I Have a Need as well But in this dirt my need Shines Fresh and Sweet as Spring Grass. {Of Which I However am Not newly Cut.} I Smoke Obsolete Health Brimmed full with Paper and Dead. It is a Methodical Brutality of Air. I Watch car Lights polish my eyes A Hundred Reflections a Million Fold, For These corner Streets are Thick in Shame Greased Glass, The Moon above, little more then a shining round opal of Lubricant. The Night is Heavy here, under a myriad fluorescent glow, Thick, Fibrous, a pink black Fuzz Explosion. Like leather, Hard, across the Ass. Flesh Overflowing with silent clinging insistence, I Can Smell the sex in the Air. I Smoke just a little bit more, Till the Balls and ***** leave My hair, Beat back by the Modest Goodness of Cancer. The Future is little more than incipient burning unconscious pieces, Tomorrow is a Concussion, Today the Tonight Is not Real. Can You Feel Life Coughing? Coughing Meaningless Coughing Resignation A Sea of Hammers and Endless Air. I look to my Side Rotting Metal nodding absently, “Yes…. Always….” The lights in this place are Like sulfur hemorrhoids, And needless to say they irritate my eyes. (Sound of running Water) A Dozen Shots of Nameless and Burn Going Sigh-twinge-hiss down the throat. (I Am Now Drunk) The Back-ground Screeching with a hundred tightly packed Motion-Gyrate----hydraulic Machinery. (But You, However, Might call Them People) This Is Star Wars! There Are Laser Beams in the Air! (I Am Now Drunk) For Tonight God’s Slogan, Hell, All the Angels Themselves… One Long Heavenly Chorus, All, “Suck, Slurp…. Bugger.” But the end… It Justifies my Means. I look to my Side, Rotting Metal nodding Absently, “Yes… Always….” Green Eyes Gristle, Expressionless “Can we Go now?” -thend-

Copyright © | Year Posted 2008

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