Wednesday, May 30, 2012

human suffering 25.7

She accuses me of being bourgeoisie with the napalm. I walk around the room naked, breathing in her smoke. On the kitchen table there is a sword and a bottle of red wine. Tonya is humming something from the Ramones. A slow piano melody plays in the background; it is like someone forgot to turn it off. Searching for the right chords to help us find our way among the illusions. We need a new life, a new direction. We are leaving the mines and feeling a little bit sick. You were so shiny and new. We are surrounded by a sea of houses. The smoke rings break apart and turn into small demonic fingers. They point at you and I, accusingly. It is as if they know of the great evil that we committed against god and man. You are always sitting next to me, smiling approvingly. We speak a language between each other without words. I have started the self-destruct sequence. Let’s just press the reset button. You have been stealing from the graves again. Someone had told me this as I stopped to buy a paper. You said you were only breaking even. I’m sleeping in your house with one eye open. Tonya has fallen down and I helped her up. I tied her close to my waist as she wrestled with the parachute. We placed the knots so carefully over you and we called in the ghost. We picked up your disorder from the store. It looked so new and gorgeous. We took the gun and held it to your head.

Tuesday, May 29, 2012

human suffering 25.6

There were lines in your reasoning that I could not trace. She is giving me two hours of mumbo jumbo. I wish I could do something about it, maybe create a vaccine. She could dance with the fullness of her womanhood. We sat on our hands and watched the witches dance. They seemed like such pretty little witches. I wondered about their extra nipples. They kicked their legs up high and made attempts to fly. How would they finish? Would they finish at all or would they spin on forever until eternity broke loose from the coils of time? She wants to believe in my smell. I am devoid of purpose, I have become absurd. This world does not make sense, yet the rituals of our lives are very entertaining. We laugh at their utter meaninglessness. You have mistaken me as someone who only wants to wait. You think of me as a gap between though and action. We begin with the living individual and construct our machines of war from these weak materials. You made a life out of fighting against the machine of war. I am a man charging a machine gun nest armed only with a sword. Sometimes life contains aspects that may appear to a rational mind to be absurd. The appearance is only because of ignorance, because of a lack of understanding from the view point of the other. The absurd is that which we do not know of or we do not understand. Is a soldier who throws his body on a grenade being absurd or being very meaningful?

Thursday, May 24, 2012

human suffering 25.2

I crawled on my belly through the cornfields. I wanted to lay still and become like the dust. Prudence was calling my name. The doors to her heart are locked. She looks so small tonight. I can almost not see her.  She is tiny like a bug. I can feel her, she consumes me. This cornfield is full of killers tonight. The dirt soaks up their illness. One by one I put the barrel of the gun into their mouths. I can see the alienation in their eyes. I can see their hurt all across their faces. No one is innocent and no one wants to be brave tonight. I told them that I would make them real. We go to a bar and sit down at a table. The waitress comes over to take our order. She has a way of making us lose our minds. That can be a dangerous thing. She wants to burn us out. The waitress used to preach the gospel until she was possessed by a demon. She makes me want to drink beer. She makes me want to sell bibles door to door. Just so I can lick her pussy. I go to the hardware store and buy her a bag full of nails. We are fucking on top of the table. The killers are watching us fuck. There is drool running down their chins. I reach inside you, deep inside you and pull out your uterus and shake it in your face.

Wednesday, May 23, 2012

human suffering 25.3

My accusers are the silence, the emptiness. We are no good without words. There have been so many words between us. You say that the street at night has ruby eyes. I ask you if all streets have ruby eyes and you say no just the street outside our door. You say that outside our door is a world beyond all knowing. You spread your naked wings and the ground slips away. It has been more than two hours since you last felt so alone. There is a misfortune that lurks behind you. And then we were down to New Jersey with the bomb squad. You had one small tear from each eye. It was all so three dimensional as the world becomes unstuck. Another fix of motel love, this we said was for the martyrs. Your symptoms get louder as your thoughts jumble up together to the point where you are numb and feel nothing. I watch as the dragon slide out from between your legs and begin to devour. We dive like invaders, a thin slice, you transformed, like an interior sphere. Once this was a Christ like heart inside of you as open as a page of octaves with all of their whirling fragments so determined to be like a god of this day and age with all of the unreasoning snippets. This was the immortality that we had built. You had nothing to show for it. All dry bone and lamenting eyes with lips that traced back to the beginnings of time. You touch me with the fingers of triumph. Yes, touch me again and again. The paintings of life pushed aside to make room. The hardened black sediments of your heart as a sign of temptations past as you fill your nostrils with regret. It was all about what you didn’t do that left you unkempt. A slithering something that rose and swelled in a tempest of sympathy and exaltation as you spoke of the backwardness of man and his bestial natures as if your heart was won or lost by such trifles of account. The little motor in your head whirling away, trying to be efficient.

Monday, May 21, 2012

human suffering 25.4

I remember taking you to that art museum. You didn’t give a shit about the art. You only wanted to smoke my hash and drink some beers. I knew that I would love your forever, or at least until the morning. You said that you cried watching me on the cross. You are escaping from the egg of existence. Cracking up the shell one small piece at time, you can see your freedom approaching-but this only a deception. There is a small skull on your table beckoning to you to come. You are child jumping on the death bed. So many blue people, nobody gives a fuck what I think, nobody gives a fuck what I think. i don't have anything that I am really passionate about. There is just nothing there. nothing there at all. I am kicking an old bucket around the room, it doesn’t hold water any more. There have been quiet; I haven’t heard a peep from the dogs. I don’t care what people do. Out in the middle of nowhere and I’m so thrilled to be in my own place. The roof needs to be fixed, a fucking nightmare. Why are reading this? What are you learning from me? I’ve got to get to work. I am wearing different shoes. They were all that I could find. I am down to my last bucket of scrap. I got to figure how to make some cash. What can I do? You can name your dog Fido, trusted friend. Everything goes in a special place.  I am photographing your flowers, each and every one. You were trying to be polite as I smashed all of your dishes and pissed on your freshly shampooed carpet. I slit my wrist and drew you a map to my heart on your living room wall. Someday you will die just like Johnny Carson. I stayed up all night watching Dean Martin drink and pretend to be drunk. There is a little Nazi in your head and I’m trying to get him out. I think we will need a priest to do an exorcism. Can you touch your toes?

human suffering 25.5

I have been talking to Roberta about your mental asphyxiation as you were squatting in the ashes. The words seemed a bit harsh and false as they came out of your mouth. You threw them against the stone walls and down from the tall white steeples. We turned the bright eyes of the pigs as we watched Archie Bunker and grew the anger in our veins. Mr. Crowley said that you were too young for an under shave and hair dip dyed in bright colors. Still you could tickle his fancy with too much hair spray and a bad angle. Mr. Crowley was a sucker for Japanese Haiku. You are more than a face, more than an earlobe. Mr. Crowley looks out his window and watches murder all day. He is knee deep in the blood of the innocents and yet he can write love poems all day. He writes love poems and dedicates them to Bonnie. He tells her that he dies in her arms every day. He is reading her lips, very carefully, hoping to understand the pauses and the miscues. Mr. Crowley has told Bonnie all about the little voices in his head. How they speak to him in the middle of the night when no one else is around. Bonnie still thinks she can afford the luxury of changing Mr. Crowley’s mind. Bonnie would picture his mind as a large waxy machine that stamped children into raspberry cookies. He was a light that showed all the secrets in the cave of her being. He was a wizard of theft and transformation as he spoke of love and the true beating sounds of his heart. Mr. Crowley is afraid that the truth will get out. He covers Bonnie in headlines. He sees monsters behind all of the trees. He wants to change the plugs in his pickup truck. He moves in and out of the land of the giant hamburgers. He is talking to a white frosted wedding cake, asking it if in knows the way to the nearest bust stop. He has all of his papers in order, just in case the police stop him and ask. But, they never have and most likely never will. He was telling the wedding cake about geothermal energy and asking women walking their dogs if they would be interested in helping him dig the shaft. He only talked to women with dogs. He considers all the dogs on the planet to be like lead soldiers on the planet Venus. He watched as the wedding cake crouched as if to be fucked from behind. The wedding cake had glassy blood-shot eyes. We watched as Mr. Crowley poked and licked her anus. He was probing for that sore place in her abdomen that made her feel all alone. Her heels over his head and laughing at the full moon.

Thursday, May 17, 2012

human suffering 2.9

I watched as you spun the sensitivity. I was a native and doubted. I could tolerate the vulgarity. Thinking of how to build up the haphazard, you throw the bones into the street and dance with a tragic foot. We wrapped you up in bandages to cover your scars, but you said that your scars were freedom. Still I had to eat your plums. I had to see the visions for myself. I left you in a boarding house across town. You were confused and kept calling me daddy. I spanked the monkey that was in your bedroom. I realize that that you were probably saving it for the holidays. But, life is precarious.