Walk The Plank And Tell Me How It Feels

Hellacious praisers, redeemed by the fallen one. Scorched by sinking suns, loved by one and all. A tapestry of flies buzz around empty mouths. From crumbling ruins to the shores of heavenly bodies, they foretell the coming of vengeful souls. From the hanging gardens where we were born, the scent of honey carries with voices unknown. Stones forged in the bellies of gods. Burped out along with mistaken truths. Stricken by acid and colossal arseholes. Entwined like string around wrists so tender and small. X marks the spot on cervical incisions. American beauty. American dead. 70’s porn. Pig killer hiding in the shadows with nothing to fear and everything to doubt. Teeny boppers on the edges of nowhere. Detroit wasters. San Francisco taxi journeys that take you to bullets and blood. Torn fragments of clothing. Uniforms that litter the corners of your mind. Hunger on a park bench. Saliva on threadbare knees. Chipmunks skinned alive. Skull and bones painted on starless bellies. Disjointed portions of fantasy. We praise poisoned idols. We surrender to the whims of those who take us by surprise. Swim with the fishes. Avoid car crashes. Beware of ticking bombs. Suffered unto me with statues adorned with oranges and birdcages. Morphine in bottles around the base of a tree. Singing to our Mother, we know not of redemption, only regret. Crest of inbreds. Stagnant waters on the outer reaches of your imagination. Vegetable people. Bornographic whims. Hunched like poverty. Repelled by castration. To withstand pressure we curl up like animals. We bury ourselves deep within where we need to be. Every day, a million miles inside. Sculpture of man. Destroyed by the unmade. The bridge, or perhaps a prison. We’ll never know where we’re headed. It’s just a matter of saving ourselves. Swings and roundabouts. Salem’s Lot. Demons always chomping at the bit. Hallowed ground and searchlights. Outlined in chalk. Besieged by watery deaths. Bell tower so lonely. The chimes of a city clock. Olden streets. Places frustrated by absent lovers. Greed so easy. Dismissal by self-obsession. Always the self, and never another. Got to see where you go wrong. Got to own up to the dead. For the dead never forget, and they’ll never stop dragging you down to where there’s no escape.

5 replies »

  1. This is the kind of writing that tells you nothing and everything at the same time. It’s not quite the trailer, more like a poorly pirated film. You see glimpses of so many things that if fills you. It piles up, and disappears. Unusual, but beautiful.

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