Railroad Tracks going up and down her arms. A magnificent bloody detailed needlepoint. Crack pipe blues. Give me an avalanche of poison for my rebirth.
You don’t understand my journey. It is one of withdrawal.
I.V. Drip, Drip, Drip, Drip
Glazed look in his eyes transfers to me giving me Restless Womb Syndrome. He kissed me with such fervor and hunger that I thought he’d eat me alive. He did.
Another baby born for sacrifice. Screaming. Shaking. Yelling. Crying. Wailing. Babies future fodder for grottoes and guttersnipes. Prison Pipelines like those white lines going up her nose.
Running a Train. Subway Icarus suicide. Fried Flesh scent lives in my nostrils brain memory. A Train to nowhere and oblivion.
I was pulled from the murky Underbelly of a concussion. I felt like I kissed a rose filled with Thorns. Once again I was a victim of the hairy handed one who throbbed with sordid bacchanals. I felt a tad messianic from the rancid ambrosia that I had imbibed from the night before
The gossamer cadaver skin. So pale. So venous. The Hairy Handed One was just a series of protruding Vulgarisms. Venal Vulgarisms that vibrated my body into a macabre dance.
I once brought my Lover a Bobcat. It ate all our poultry and terrorized the hounds. To Celebrate that night we had Snail Tacos which are considered a real delicacy in these parts. The Hairy Handed One had a Mullet that didn’t make it. Lyle Lovett meets the Wolf man. Me ~~ Just an Abstract Tart. Then he vanished like fog into the mist.
The Queene Anne Sanitarium was built so that every floor opened out to the cliffs behind the “Health Spa.” An open invitation if I ever saw one!! Parson Krown was renowned for telling the families of potential patrons the story whilst they toured this magnificent abode. Good compost for the garden. For a Man of the Cloth Parson Krown constantly made puzzling statements. As they tumble backwards over steepness and onto the razor sharp craggy rocks. Many times in the late night early dawn and late dusk I’ve ventured out to the shore line. It can’t be described as a beach even though the ocean laps its shores. The ground is littered with black stones of all shapes and sizes. Even what little sand there is is of a pebbly granular consistency.
It’s always those quaint, quiet picturesque villages that have the most undertow. Some days I spent a quiet time in my room only to realize that quite unexpectedly that my room was no longer my room but a brand new room populated with unfamiliar objects. I felt myself being drawn into a mysterious Rectangle.
Just spitballin’ through life.
The scent of decomposing flesh and decaying blood permeated the entire shore line. Someone had formed giant sand stupas each one commemorating the death of a fallen. In place of my heart was a bloody effusions.
Ecclesiastes 12:1-8
New King James Version (NKJV)
12 Remember now your Creator in the days of your youth, Before the difficult days come, And the years draw near when you say, “I have no pleasure in them”: 2 While the sun and the light, The moon and the stars, Are not darkened, And the clouds do not return after the rain; 3 In the day when the keepers of the house tremble, And the strong men bow down; When the grinders cease because they are few, And those that look through the windows grow dim; 4 When the doors are shut in the streets, And the sound of grinding is low; When one rises up at the sound of a bird, And all the daughters of music are brought low. 5 Also they are afraid of height, And of terrors in the way; When the almond tree blossoms, The grasshopper is a burden, And desire fails. For man goes to his eternal home, And the mourners go about the streets.
6 Remember your Creator before the silver cord is loosed,[a] Or the golden bowl is broken, Or the pitcher shattered at the fountain, Or the wheel broken at the well. 7 Then the dust will return to the earth as it was, And the spirit will return to God who gave it.
8 “Vanity of vanities,” says the Preacher, “All is vanity.”
Stair Steps to a Picturesque Village where horrors never cease. One can hear the groans and moans of the dead and dying. Once a battlefield soaked in blood, guts and gore now a grassy field with heather and lovely weeds. Dandelions blowing in the breeze. The Village. A Beautiful unspoiled happy Village.
As was Declan’s evening habit he went walking in the neighborhood historic cemetery which was located quite close to his home. Silence time. As he walked his thoughts mixed with the crunch of late Autumn leaves and early hoarfrost. So deep in musings was Declan that he was totally unaware of the clicks, ticks, buzzes, snaps and pops that emanated from the trees and foliage. An electrical storm of communications and warnings that went unheeded.
“Just for sport. Just for sport. He muttered under his breath.”
It was her startling blue eyes like orbital sapphires filled with charisma and grace that first got you then like suction drew you within. Spider eyelashes flicked and flutter as she raised a beckoning hand bedecked with moist blood red nail varnish. That wet Lacquered look ala Elvira and Vampira except Rheema had that cornsilk golden spun hair and girl next door looks that threw you off balance contrasting what a Dark Angel should appear.
That Golden hair spun loose a malevolent energy changing Declan’s former awe to complete disgust. Declan watched with mounting fear as the people formerly surrounding him were torn apart into mangled masses of flesh resembling sides of beef or badly butchered pork loins. Her banshee screams and wails caused bodies to explode and implode accompanied by cries of the unfortunate corporeals………………….
Mary Mary quite contrary,
How does your garden grow?
With silver bells and cockle shells
And pretty maids all in a row.
These are but two of the private developments going up in my neighborhood.
None of the apartments will be set aside for U.S. ARMY Veterans like myself or for the working class.
Obviously a clear case of gentrification. People like myself are being pushed out in favor of the 6 figure folks.
Just goes to show you that you can go to college, graduate with honors, serve your country, work tons of overtime, obey the law but still not win. What little you have can be taken away at any moment.
I stand at the border of the forest, amidst grasping root and snaking vine. And I listen. I can hear you snuffling in the green darkness. Your breath sucks in and blows out. In my mind’s eye I can see the moist cavity of your lungs ballooning and deflating. A breeze scratches among the leaves and I freeze. Your snorting ceases. The deep shadows become still. A scrabble of earth, the ripping of vines and you, the Animal, are gone.
I wait until daylight when sunlight dapples the forest floor. I hear you roar, greeting the new day and I search for you. Following your razor-like tracks in the leaf mould, I walk beneath tall trees and beside rushing rivers. Would your sharp claws embrace me if I met you?
Your heavy stench drifts upon the close air. My nostrils flare in revulsion even as I strain eagerly forwards to…
Espiritu en Fuego/A Fiery Spirit 