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| fig.894) Fuck You, Captain, Pirate, Monster Stupid-Bird |
I'm mourning and failing into the day's quietude.
The myth of me is like an anthill whose overturned calamity and swarm is tiny and can't pass measure. Cigarettes taste good, they're like an
ocean around the preacher's ears while the book of their
indignation is clasped to his chest whitely. Over full with sanctimonious
bookly shit, bilious from copious queses but satisfying none the less, or
so the preacher now surmises.
Look, the birds are back. They’ve returned and it’s not just
the fat chunkers either. There's starlings teeming in the dirt beside a few
cardinals and a broke down pigeon who's coughs. Poking around, all of them look
as obnoxious and selfish as preening judges.
"Zombies won't come, not today. They're up in Uptown. There's perfect crème brulee there."
Today in the gutter like prizes, there's stalled carts and shoe boxes. The tooth of their capitol once issued with mutter
and hush has finally crept off darkly. Rodents are dashing along the way now. More marks like the others, more ghosts for
this maze. There's a rush of horses but they aren't telling anyone nothing, not
even me!
In the weeds are my own nutterings about the fastness of every other thing, including those they, their's, them's and a Milton too
boot. Then there's the constipated math. Before viewing, it has to stop to breathe in the Bandshell's wings. It has to remember the old times with the horn players that once slacked in the shadows. It has to murder those politics that were left
on our doors.
This knackered tomb, everyone within it introduces themselves as, Mister Charles Bukowski. All of the gas lit infusions or
blankets of rose that baldly smell of scorn, they're all Mister Charles Bukowski from the lawn. Upon entering this place, a bit of
my harvest is lost in the bonk. Now I only have change for one last
gasp but two knobs and a poker remain. "Oh, whatever shall I do?"
"STRUM STRUM,
Doodle DOO STRUM, STRUM STRUM HOODLE HOO, HO HOODLE HO HOO... There's no snakes
in these trees Tempting sailors to say please No fortunes will I find on any
butt that's nearest mine, Oh I know what you want, Team revival Japheth, now
Shem or Yam or Ham, my shirts a mess and my shoes won't match the shorts on the
floor of this old gym," there's yet a lark or a boat to follow this song,
with.
Watching, their hair is perfectly swept into a genderless
lid. Only half of which is as important as the eyes showing out from underneath
that spray. They're as unkempt as an overturned sock drawer. There's a singlet
then a tutu with some mismatched socks, yellow is the color of the colander
they've chosen for a hat. On the porch smoking; talking about the mice and the
math and the math that makes the mice go, they’re dashed with light as if
zested.
Milton wants is to hear his own name. He wants to gently
return, his words and not theirs, to that more central place. He wants to be
golden and to feel radiant. But they don't know what any of that means. Sitting
in the sunshine just a few steps from the sidewalk, they are bemused by his
turn.
My lady, she's an angry boot. She sings duel sided love songs. My lady, she is adjacent to nothing. She wears silken shoes, my lady does. She's dirty with ocean spray. She offers me nothing short of semisweet, condensed with clotted bees. She's blind before these beans of gold and butter, she's ma lady gone ta bust. (this mercantile bonus, this burgundy hum for a many sided shoe, thus too boot)
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