Gasoline, time, and and cup of stale coffee

Nimble hates

Gums and sore pain 

Late, but he was the only man I knew who had the grain to fight it

We have shared the darkness of sunset together 

Feeling the heat of this dry desert on our backs

Searching in his eyes 

Familiar as the black tar

Brown as the stale coffee we drik after

 Ever having no wordsmith in our minds

He feels like gasoline 

A built up energy 

Going into, the nexus again and again 

Fire of our passion blows off the hottest of steams

I’m confident, comfortable, lost, and scared we will end this

Our weekly diet of sex, coffee, and wordless love

Then, just as it ends

We are sipping the cold coffee 

He smiles and says 

Same time next week lover? 

I’m smitten and nod knowing we will do this

As long as the gasoline lasts

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Arrival 

It’s a purple day 

Swimming with alien eels 

Tickets rain from their mouths

Like a parade of hungry caterpillars 

I’m strong and still I fail to make progress 

A thousand empty strokes 

Real or broke

Now I’m a grain of sand

Like a charade made by slouchy giant gorillas 

Pine prongs over kills from paid digress

A pound of gentry mops

Steel or woke 

Mind Junkie

Fruity drinking modernists, whispering bourgeois platitudes whilst encased in mud encrusted realism’s

“Oppressive details of modernity, its Dirty realism” they whisper

As they sip their green drinks, among disinfected franchises

“Extradites of the simplistic. It’s like watching a soapy.”

One of them laughs at the idea. “Soapy. Clean plots, unclean people.”

I am not sure I am welcome in this domain of this self-hating temple

“Dystopian narratives?”, my question seeming to be sitting on the air like a ignorant child’s observation of the obvious

Looking long, and drinking some more, then Tweedy waves his hand at the effervescence silence.

“Not always. A possessive obsession of those, things we consider dirty.” He tastes the words like a snake, waiting to see if the air is deflated of my question

Seriously, a stuck up Hat-man, such a brown nose he has I thought, he doesn’t realize how much we need the junk, how we need to realize we need to recycle it, compost it, re-purpose it, let it influence us, and how it influences him

“Oh Tweedy, oh tweedie, you are but a mind junkie, kindled by the thrash of so called unclean. As much as you would hate to admit it. Cycles are needed, feeding into each other, like rivers. Of course any second now you will ask me to stick to just one metaphor. But I ask you, why should junk like me do that, you take our freshest mud and excrement, say “oh look at that, how silly this low brow thing is” and then you let it come in stay like a stray cat. It likes to sit and wait, then one day, you will realize you feed it just as much as you feed the dig dog who barks at all your supposed wrong.”

I pick up his drink, drink his drink, smile at him, and walk out without another word. Ready to cover the world in the words of the so called trash of the real. This dirty realism, it isn’t so much dirty as it is a part of the whole cycle. Live with it. Let it in. Feed it. Morals from the hang ups of a culture who hasn’t worked out how we talk to each other.

 

 

 

 

A road map (Pandora)

1.

Every one likes to think

You can survive on hope

That it’s always left their

In the morning after the storm

Pandora and the escalating escapes

Did you forget

That truth has already gone? 
2.

Is that your travel bag?

It’s not?

Oh I see your eyes. Death has her grip.

I will let you know a secret 

Pandora’s little trick

It’s a road map to the arfternoon of life

Autumn rejects

Cast out on the wind and rain

Does it pain you, trees? 

Letting go of your autumn rejects?

Marking your fortitude for the long winter night

Can’t hold them right, it’s not worth he fight 

Are they strife? Call you on your blight?

Does the Suns lack of gaze, the hated haze, make you into this horrid milazse? 

Hold up the light, it’s clear your just asleep. But am I right?

That the leaves are just a blight?

You cast them of after they just reach their growth. 

Bailey

Root sum of the east

Plating his mustache with an air of efficiency 

Standing guitar ready to play, black leather jacket has seen better days 

He takes his breath, starts to sing a tune that summons

Ideal of summers warm like lime cordial long since past, winters chills that sends shivers that last

The people come and find his song, travel with it to this pretend land long gone

Walls that build a civil society above the sky looking at the land below. A vision of perfection

A mouse sends postcard from the wainscoting, telling us of all his shopping. Is this another story? Song? Or are we asleep.

We feel but meek. Weaker and poorer and happier, as we realize how perfection isn’t meant to last

Haze of life

I walk the streets, feeling meek
A cloud above my head
Feeling utterly dead
What was that they said?
I’m not able to hear
Fear, hate, they are dear, to me
The haze of life around them
Their plastic lovesick pup and the leash they are on
At least they could try to see the whips of their barren masters
They are created casters of spells you cannot tell

I walk the streets feeling meek
The haze of these things in the air
I try to show them how things grow
Through the pavement path my children sowed
The path is poisonous though, it suffocates them
I still try
Maybe some hear my song
Sheltered by the tree one stands
She smells different
I see the haze has lifted from her eyes

One of them
The rest of the day goes well
Walking the streets feeling not as meek
Then I come back to where she was
And they, those sprits of plastic
Like a cloak on her back
Trying to re create the haze
She looks at me and sees me
No one has ever seen me for centuries

I tell her I am Jack
I have your back
Now you see
You will be free like me
And then there are two of us
Walking the streets, feeling not as meek
Maybe we will find more soon
My feet are so tired

A new circle

Circles that spin and contort in my mind
New ones given to conform with the rhyme

Bird I imagine given me song
I forget sometimes we don’t like to be wrong

Grass and square cut into thee
Innocent, innocence that’s our plea

Dots and spots forever to get
Live as we must instance to met

I’m not so sure we are as a consequence
Radial markers former spirit moral tense

Table 192

Growing walls
Shouting out
Dead skin in dust about
Quay of circles
In the time
Vending paper
Mending minds

Jacks so hungry
He’s up on the wall
Musk and vanilla
Full the hall

Central table
Jump lines
You do
The seen
The many
Shapes of limes
Mad as ice crushed crimes

Simple people
With complex stories
Jack takes up
A moment of your time

Train goes past
Ever so fast
In the cartridge of the past
Inn to stay at
St James as well
the arrows, the rack smell

Trees and bushes
On the wall
In Jacks we trust
For Jack alls we get

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