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Dread of Brief Dead Flies by PMPope
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Dread of Brief Dead Flies by PMPope
This is a sample of PMPope's Written works
 
 

The Dread of Brief Dead Flies - pmpope

 

The belief in cool is a controlled belief

it is not only a faith in cool

nor belief in control

for the faithless are indeed the godless

the godless are dead & dull

in that dread of brief dead flies

we learn the rules we know

 

 

DREAD OF BRIEF DEAD FLIES

Rule#1-

You must find some reason to get out of bed everyday

it's a square, a square

a square

a square

a square, a square

It's a cube!

4th Dimension Reality explodes

into 2 dimensional characters

It's ALL &/or Nothing

The overall Reality of the Situation

The situation of overall Reality

One asks the Question

One answers the Answers

Rule#1- You must find

Some Reason

to get out of bed

everyday

 

 

 

 

 

RULE#2 (about flies)

Dead Flies Dread More Brief

Rule#2- Right lane MUST turn Right

sweep the searchlight))) warn Mermaids off the Rock)))

you know the climb will take your hill

home again

home again

home again

you really mustn't

pen a poem with a sword

 

sure, you can turn a screw...

But,... can she make a Lemon Pie

Meringue

whipped Cream

?

Or maybe-+-+-+... a pleasant fat peasant would do/\\//\

when i meant to say

perchance a sentient pheasant for you<<<!>>>

sitting alone on Cathedral steps

sitting alone on park bench

home again & again &again

Rule # 2 is the virtual statement

posted approaching intersections only

Rule # 2 --- as previously stated

Right lane MUST turn Right

applies only to those

following rules

@ intersections

 

RULE # 3 STATES A MISS IS AS GOOD AS A MILE

Dead Flies Dreaded More Briefly

Rule # 3- A Miss Is As Good As A Mile

That we would aim for the fly

on the windowsill

the fly

on the windowsill

is aimed for

before we aimed for

the windowsill

the fly

was on the windowsill

to be aimed for

Men become more attractive to older Women

No! No!

Older Men become more attractive to Women

Rule # 3- A Miss Is As Good As A Mile

There's these flies

We think

'They're Dead...'

There's a little Girl

crouching hunched///bent///over///3rd World

Women become attracted to Men they fall in Love...

 

Men fall in Love with Women they are attracted...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

If we were to think

 about the things we think we thought

@ times we brought about

those thoughts we think

we think

caution guide our heads

timid move our hands

the stoplight & the siren

caused to cease again

 

Stable elements have been introduced

within these fleeting feats

Attempting to format the Future

the Present is logically constrained

 

Templates are fond of saying

The only way it works...

Is the way of the modern mind

Id buy that for a dollar...  a nickel & a dime

for planes i choose to step upon only ever

line my brain to the cold hard fact

nothing is for certain... save that certainty

absconds the passionate futility

of seemingly Earth based tact

 

 

Saw a man without much except between the ears a veritable storage unit of trivial data force fed from the moment his feet hit the ground images were consumed through his brown & gold flaked eyes his lips ran a continuous race to kill the buzz behind his ears where dreams are supposedly stored

too much info man that was his lot so now he sits to tell anyone the things they think they thought...

 

Those arent your murders my young guilt ridden martyr. I saw that movie on late night TV before your parents thought you to spawn.

 

The gargoyle takes the pawn position. The position of the pawn. To work a slave & fritter away>>> Time upon this plane.

An INCREMENT CAN LAST FOREVER!

Years but a grain of glass

Eyes have ears Feet have shells Pearls do oysters make

 

 

 

 

 

EGO-TRIP

 

 

Why arent you @ work?- questions one of the other

Maybe, I dont have to work today. Whats your excuse?- fires back the other

Todays my day off. I have a job... I make money.- smug & superiorly stated

Oh,.. Ive got money. Look @ these shoes. Cost me two hundred & fifty dollars.- hmphs! The other

I know. I know. Ive got three pair of them in my rosewood shoe caddy- trumps One

Ahh, I remember when all I needed was a caddy,... but shoes,.. always need more shoes.- touche

I have enough shoes. I prefer jewels. Look @ this watch. Platinum & diamond inlay. Rubies on the face. Insured for five grand. Im certain you understand, I must keep track of time.-

The other points to the back of the neck -Oh, time, yes! Thats why I opted for Digi-Surgical implant  Not only displays the hour day & date, but keeps me up to speed on stocks & sports scores. I can also watch first run DVD through satellite uplink & @ this moment, I am watching an art film in Cantonese the title is You foolish, foolish man, I am your master.-

-An implant, eh? Check this out, sucker.- One then jumps precisely vertical into the air twenty, thirty, fifty stories straight into atmosphere & lands with nary a hair being mussed upon the exact spot One was thrust- Biological tissue & muscle replacement technology, you see? Wave of the future, I tell you. I may as well be God.-

 

Thee Farmer Works

Why do these Specters haunt us so? Prophecy is just prophecy,.... after all. To believe, no matter how falsely redounded, Times Horse rides upon the straight & narrow linear roadway is every bit as untrue as a concoction of rot gut from twelve stories up & Look @ me boys! Look @ me! I think Ive got this flying thing down pat.

Scramble-headed metaphysicians deny every iota of faith every proposed. History is over. Forever.

Little girls stay so straight & on the job... @ the cafes... libraries... anywhere humans gather... buying Lotto tickets... picking through trash @ the Thieves Market... Old men dreaming past scenes... what it was... getting on down the road... working until... dot dot dot... no work left to do. Hell, nowhere else to do it! Sooner or later they all kick themselves out [[[searching out a little placid plot of pasture to graze]]]... awaiting the VERY FINAL END.

 Here comes Farmer Death! The androgynous farmer... Farmer Death... Gots im some overalls.

Caked with sweat from the Till... pants leg cuffed up with dusty ash covered boots... old saggy assed Farmer Death... permeated by the scent of pale horse flesh... rolling up the sleeves of worn gray-blue flannel... up to the elbow... Cock crowing Time To Get To Work!... smoothing back the thinning hair under the baseball cap. The black cap. Well seasoned enough to curl the bill... keep the sun outta the eyeball sockets. The Black Cap of Farmer Death. Hangs it on a hook @ the end of the day. The black caps a freebie from the Midwestern Hardware Hustler who sold em... Top o the Line! Top o the Line! They dont make em like that anymore. No siree... Jimbob Johnny Jo-Jo! Dont make em like that anymore. That is one top notch Grade A farming implement you bought yourself there, Mister! Tell ya what Im gonna do... You paid the cash on the barrelhead, I respect that, yes I do, Im gonna throw in this baseball cap absolutely FREE of charge... 

 Farmer Death adjusts the brim of the cap... emblazoned with the single word... red word stitched... stitched on an orange field of patch... one red word... burning searing... one red word...

Hot word blowing across the endless summer prairie after the last of springs Wildflowers have withered & crumbled into more of that dust on his boots... One red word sez REAPER. Thats it! You know hes comin. You can spot that red & orange patch from a mile away.

Some of the more crotchety grazers say On a clear day you can smell im comin! That is, of course, if noones lain fresh manure out recently to protect the crops... Still the grazers know what Times about & they know whats goin on. Doesnt mean they dont freak out. Sometimes they get a little spooked... try to scramble towards the couch or kitchen... somewhere safe... maybe the bathroom... somewhere familiar... want to hold out just a little bit longer... ..got one more thing to do, boss. Then Im all yours. Never enough of that linear time...

Ah, dont look so shocked. Neither Time nor Death are battling out over an animate sack of meat. Theyve got no beef with each other,... or anybody else for that matter... Ones the worker... ones the playboy. Youll have to figure out who is who. It wouldnt do Justice for a writer of fiction to attempt to explain.

Here comes Farmer Death...

Yep! Hes right on time

 

 

 

 

Thee Life & Times of Artemius Roxbury

Artemius Roxbury, a Man among Men, belching with brimming satiety, is now ready to pursue his task of telling the world how truly incredible he is:

 Chapter 1... Roxbury situates his micro-cassette recorder, his C-phone, a single gold-plated ball point pen, & a crystal pitcher of his special rum & coke concoction [ he crushes cola beans in his cuisinart with a milligram of rattlesnake venom, for bite. He then proceeds to transfer this liquid into his heirloom crystal pitcher which by this time has been filled with black rum from Barbados & two (2) ice cubes] before, finally, pressing the record button on his recording device.

 

 Chapter 1. Concerning the Nietzchian prefectedness of the particular species of human that is Man Who Controls Machine... or... How I, Artemius Roxbury, Forming the Very Top Rung of this Pyramid Have Introduced My Talent Into the World at Large. Page One. Sentence One.

I, Artemius Roxbury, born of the proud and noble lineage, Roxbury, found myself born into greatness at birth. The Ultrasound  revealed my embryonic form, to an awestruck gathering of  professional experts in the field of fetal development, to be anatomically correct at the tender age of 2 and 1˝ weeks(TWO AND ONE HALF WEEKS). I then proceed to exit the womb at six months fully grown and capable of communicating with the proficiency of a child THREE(3) TIMES MY AGE! In order to spare my mother, the Lovely Lady Roxbury, the embarrassing throes of child bearing labor pain, I kept the entire birthing process under 1.75 minutes. Interesting sidenote: My mother, the Lady Roxbury, whom has oftener than naught been complimented for bearing such a fine specimen of manhood while maintaining the vivacious figure of a young lady in her early 20's, continually sends my birthday greetings in the form of  thank you notes.

 

A voracious reader: by the age of one(1) I found myself completely & whole heartedly bored with the tiresome & unengaging Times Literary Picks & so began delving into rare printings of classic literature. Greedily consuming Rosicrucian Metaphysics, Asian Libraries of the Samurai, & Sanskrit Sutras, as well the untranslatable versions of primitive cultural texts.

 

You cannot fathom the joy which I encountered, when my venerable uncle, Fenniwick Roxbury, bestowed upon me, Sir Richard Burtons complete translation of 1,001 Arabian Nights & a Night, as my birthday gift. It was, in my opinion, the greatest treasure that could possibly fall into my hot little two(2) year old hands. I had completely committed each story to memory within two weeks & so began my interpretive murals from these images. The most famous of these murals now hangs in the gallery @ Leeds.

 

 By two & a half (2&˝) I fell into a state of rambunctious anxiety. It was this state to draw my attention from simply consuming the exploits recorded by others towards making the most of the greatness  I received as birthright. So began my exploration of the planet & its peoples. Four months before my third (3rd) birthday I began my whirlwind travels through the southern Pacific nation states. Planning to take in four(4) continents in six(6) months I surprised myself with nine(9)!...

 

Artemius stops. A quiet gnawing voice called conscious by society, labeled demon by rigid spiritualists, referred to falsely as common sense via unthinking masses of flesh crowding sidewalks from 9-5 (nine to five), whispers in his mind.

 

 There you go, Artemius! Only thinking of yourself.

 

Roxbury ponders this concept. He then turns his head taking a quick inventory of his surroundings. A squirrel in a magenta vest, with spyglass in the watch pocket, PSSTS! him from the lamppost.

 

 Hey, Arty... the squirrel, talking out the right side of his mouth Weve been waiting for you to come around. The boys @ HQ thought you were a lost cause. Hell. I sez Ill give em a few more months. Guess we know who deserves that promotion, eh, Arty ol boy? with this the squirrel raises his sunglasses giving Roxbury an accentuated wink.

 

 Artemius coughs into his fist As I have previously stated...

 

 Too late, Arty ol boy. Theres no denying it now. Look around. Theres noone else here. Just me. The squirrel in the magenta vest. I gotcha now!

 

The conscious demon of common sense disembodied, as it is, still floating outside garggles up in the ear of Roxbury Pay no attention to the squirrel in the magenta vest with the mirrored sunglasses. He is only a figment of your imagination. Listen to me, Artemius Roxbury, I am your mind.

 

 As I have previously stated...

 Arty, baby, why are you having such a problem with this. I know...I know...people have problems accepting certain concepts. Damnit, Man! YOURE Artemius Roxbury! Of the proud & noble lineage Roxbury. Your family has a history of playin Jakey straight with our agents. So whats so impossible about accepting me as a talking squirrel? Whats so impossible? That I could communicate with you, is that impossible? Its not as if I were asking you to stick a turkey in a toaster!

 

 Artemius Roxbury!! the disembodied voice now booms That squirrel is a product of your overtaxed mind!

 

Artemius pauses the recording device. A trio of busty northwestern women stroll along the roadway swathed in low-cut & revealing lycra. A sports car of WOOO-WHOOing beachy boys cruise slowly past. Black crested herons take wing from the swampy waterfront blending into pillowy clouds of whiteness in the blatantly blue summer skies. Artemius Roxbury sighs in lieu of a moan to the modern daydream.

 

I should take a brief respite from these endeavors. reaching for a drink Roxbury keeps the squirrel focused in his periphery lane of thought. The squirrel scrambles down the tree. Lopes across the yard. The squirrel finally settles into position, a good leg sweeping distance from Artemius.

 

Thats it Arty, baby, breathe in a nice long relaxing drink. Thatll cut the edge. the squirrel agent whips off his glasses. Tucks them away inside his vest. H.Q. wants the book project to proceed a little differently.

 

Which would make the best projectile for knocking off a squirrel? The ballpoint? Apropos but futile. Everyone knows a squirrel is faster than a pen.

 

The name Roxbury is already out there. Anyone with a DSL connection can do the research. In order to get the Man & Machine connotation across we need something the masses will find easier to swallow. Think, man, think! A common language...

 

Artemius, you must kill the squirrel. Even though it is only a figment of your imagination, you must destroy its hold on your psyche.

 

The crystal pitcher is a family heirloom. Priceless & irreplaceable.

 

Geeze, its hot out here today. Must have something to do with the myth of global warming, eh pal?

 

AHA! Would you care for a refreshing cocktail?

 

That sounds splendid, Arty! Ill tell you what, put it in a little dish a yard from the table, wouldja? Im not saying I dont trust you but, humans have a way of freaking out when animals start talking, ya know what I mean?

 Roxbury pours a bit of cocktail into the ashtray. He then follows the squirrels directive & returns to his seat. Scampering cautiously upon the cocktailed ashtray, the squirrel agent sneaks a draught of the baiting concoction. AHH! wiping his lips with the back of his paw That hit the spot!

If I can get this squirrel good & schnocked...

 

H.Q. wants the story to proceed as follows...Narrated by the lowliest of human workers, a taxi driver, the meat of the story revolves around a time trial, which is actually taking place even as we speak,...

 

Yes, it is difficult to believe. I hardly believe it myself. A talking squirrel.

 

YOU MUST KILL THIS SQUIRREL, Artemius!

 

...& the place where all these incidents collide is a place not unlike this plane of existence on which we are now living. Its a psycho-factual-alternate reality based plane. Now whats that supposed to mean? yer wondering. Its a plane, or level if you will, of intellectual development where imagination fuels creation as opposed to the Creation/Destruction dichotomy weve set up on this plane....

 

That condescending attitude has just signed your death warrant, rodent.

 

Bravo, Artemius. Kill that bushy-tailed, talking rat for the glory of the name ROXBURY!

 

...with this character, the narrator, were thinking maybe giving him a holier-than-thou edge of some sort. By doing this, the techno jockeys will dismiss it as a work of fiction. The religious mafioso will ignore it under the heading of crackpot. Ya see? Yer still as snug as a slug in the mud with this little piece of work. BUT!..& its a big but, the mission will have been accomplished. the squirrel takes another sip.

 

Ill wait just a little longer & then chase him into traffic. You always find flattened squirrels splatted upon these suburban thoroughfares.

 

Capital idea, Artemius! Capital!

 

You see, old Arty, if you write it, the higher ups feel that your title & position will lend it instant acceptance. It will therefore, be instantly published. It will also be instantly lost, well make sure of that on our end, lost amid the orderly filings & storage of pertinent data, only to be discovered on some distant planet in a far flung galaxy Aeons & Milieu from this present day...There you have it Arty old Arty, your mission.

 Artemius Roxbury strokes his naked chin while standing with back turned to the squirrel. The squirrel takes another sip, little realizing it will be his last. A reverberating snicker escapes the demon specter of common sense.

 

Artemius. Four semi-rigs & a couple of Harley-Davidsons are racing down the arterial right now. You have exactly eight seconds to chase that squirrel onto the pavement.

 

Artemius spins to face the squirrel AHH..YAA...YEE..AHH!!

 

GeeZUS! Whats the deal, Arty?

 

A weedwacker is leaning perpendicular to the table. As the lucky Fates would have it, it is equipped with a QUICKSTART button, which does, indeed, perform the QUICKSTART function. It whirrs to life as Artemius screams once more AHHHHHHHYIII!!

Roxbury lurches swingingly @ the tipsy gingered rodent, who, still somewhat in control of his natural lightning precise reflexes, jumps through Roxburys archingly wide stroke of hopeful disembowelment.

 

What is this? Kill the messenger, Art?

 

5! outlouds the demon

 

 Rolling & rebounding on the momentum of Arts second hack, this squirrel leaps grasping @ the slick bark of a Magnolia tree. The inertial attempt @ clawing @ the slick bark on such a wide arching leap sends the squirrel agent tumbling down upon a more precipitous bluff. A bluff situated...closer to the roadway!

 

GEE-ZUS, ART! Have you lost your mind?

 

3! now blow the demonic bellows

 

Roxburys final lunging whirr forces the squirrel off of the ledge & over the edge. The squirrel attempts to roll his body into a ball hoping to be the smallest target he can possibly be. A target so small it could roll betwixt the jackniving tires of the lead semis 60mph somersault.

 

In case Im not making myself too clear the lead rig is jackknifing because the driver is attempting NOT to hit the squirrel. That would be what is or was known as natural compassionary reaction. We must stay vigilant against the more tender emotions.

 

  The lead acrobatic rig gets plowed in succession by the following WAY too close other three, all of which carrying flammable combustives erupt in  monumental BBQ fashion. The twin Harleys leap through the wall of BBQ as nonchalantly as they would crush the head of a squirrel on a cross country hell bent for leather Amerikan Bald Eagle Monster Truck & Outlaw Biker Lovefest Holiday. They then ride off into the sunset.

 

 Finally & beyond the stated prediction of the internal demon of common sense, there comes screeching up the brake pedals a taxicab to examine the carnage. Roxbury, still flailing the weedeater above his head, melts into a lunatic-ish demonic cackle.

 The cabbie rolls down the passenger window looks up @ Roxbury & asks

 Did you call a cab?

 

 

Thee Iced Café Addiction

 

People accuse me of rambling on. {Oh, baby, time to ramble on} They usually affix this linear

insult to those of society who attempt/// by way of explaination/// Illumination of some degree

non-standard. {Baby, honey, you light up my life} Someone once after hitting a brick wall of logic

head first @ 76 miles an hour looks over her latte & sez "Your so stupid I can't even understand you."

{Nah,baby, i'm the one wearin' the t-shirt 'I'm with stupid>>>'} Then i see this newprint/fishwrap

laying around towne/// picking it up BOOM! now i know where they get it!!/// Someone has

programmed this entire society to consume mass media in short stale sound bytes of bar graphs &

pie charts {Uncle Willy loves his babies} Some other hard ass motherfucker looks over his shoulder

"Who the hell you calling baby?" Jezus KRIST!! now i gotta spell it out in  some kind of straight edge

in the space of what? before the bus comes? before the light turns green? before another piece of

furniture walks down the street/// 'Baby, I wanna lay you like a carp-ette'/// i find it difficult

enough just talking to you when i want to communicate a simple concept [It's easy, baby, ICED

COFFEE! You put the ice in first coffee next. What's that you say? All the ICE has melted. Then use

MORE.] 

 

 

Whos Barrette Is In My Pocket?- Its all for the poem- ANYWAY-

 

Last Night North Beach... These Are the Things that You Do

These Other Things that You Do- girlfriend smash! bottle of wine...

These Are the Things that You Do

when you do other things

you know you will do

bottle punch! Streetfight right

...right down the middle, baby! Right down the middle!

Down the middle of Columbo

these are those things, too

These Are the Things that You Do

 

When the ocean runs off to hide

gonna bring down that boy

from up the Northside

gonna spill that tongue

go for a ride

you know theres no poem

thatll get you that high

 

These Are the Things that You Do

When you do Other things

These Other Things that You Do

these things you do

i thought you knew

theres no ocean @ the end of this road

keep stealing things

your bound to get shown

ALL THOSE OTHER THINGS

you knew you would do

These Are the Things that You Do

 

Grant Street holdouts * got a job in the Morning

if you roll out of bed before noon

These Are the Things that You Do

As you do OTHER things

you know that you do

 

gonna take all humanity * roll it in a ball

maid cleans the carpet @ two

Audio-corpse hiding

micro-cassette

These Are the Things that You Do * you know its only written for you * for these *

Are the Things that You Do

 

 

Thee Raven of Johnson Street

HOLY CRUD!! That is the biggest raven i have seen in my life! Bigger than all those see-sawing

seagulls swallowing jumbo slices & starfish in the Sound of CHING!! CHING!! Fat City, baby!!

How the hell are you doing? Living a blind lie, where wings are flapping pigeons fat on...crumbs?

GEEZE!! Thats a big fuckin raven! Wings spreading over ismeans,...ahh, you know what i mean, OVER THE CAPITOL! OVER THE SPRAWL!!

This raven of Johnson st., so cocky [2 cock its head ] beady little eyes taking society into consideration & laughing to the beat of thunderous wings

CAW!! CAW!!

 Its kinda disturbing NOT to know why it chooses what to do @ this time/this place/

this phone call across the heartland

where legends once erupted tall tales of civil-LIE-zations

NOW LONG GONE & LOST 2 those clutching talons

BUT... this entire idea had to come from some old man named Debeer or Pulitzer or Master of the Universe who gave rewards to MEN who have & do still name women Jezebel, Eve, or Lots wife but this old man he played one & he must have given the women some as long as their names were Delilah or Salome or corporate GIRRRLZ (who ride mountain bikes & damn technology)

 

Yet, this raven does not damn technological advancement ///// perching above powerlines ///////

GRASPING BLACK CABLE IN CLAWS!!

Sort of reminds me of another bird i saw...

Grasping arrows & banners & snakes or any motherfucker who would get in the way of...

GOD>>>>>>>>>>>>>GUNS>>>>>>>>>>>or>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>GA$ !!!!

U.S.A.- U.S.A.-U.S.A.-U.S.A.-U.S.A.-U.S.A.-U.S.A.-U.S.A.-U.S.A.-U.S.A.-U.S.A.!!!!!!!

but, you see, my friends, that bird was a National Symbol

THIS RAVEN IS A HOLOGRAPHIC NIGHTMARE LOVE POEM

to take your body & soul halfway across this wasteland

& drop you into your next lifetime

CAWW!! CAWW!! CAWW!!

MAN!! THATS A BIG RAVEN!!

 

 

 

 

 


Wet & worthless, Malcolm Edwards perches the stoop of 648 e. Johnson. Sometimes nothing seems to go your way. How many days ago was this happytime beamed upon his face smug enough to blind any natural wonder or to usurp phenomena, held holy for others of higher stations? A nondescript car stops on the curb next to the stoop. Five men wearing brown suits exit the car. Malcolm lowers his head remembering the last time he was caught red-handed.

(Hotel Kenmore- March 25th [n.y.c.])

But, i told you, baby, that was a long time ago & that sort of thing doesnt mean anything to me anymore.

You think I cant spot you eyeing those bitches from Tarrytown? Once a year amnesia & then all of the sudden, you find some dead miniature dog that you feel compelled to bring home? What kind of fool do you take me for? Your a sick bastard!!

Well, this sick bastard loves you! Cant you accept that without destroying everything weve been working toward? Yolanda, Malcolm grabs her by the shoulders & throws her to the creaking mattress ill admit i am not Mr. Clean, if you will swear to me, for the one-millionth time, that you are not a hooker.

You sick bastard, Yolanda throws animated punches and struggles to extricate herself from Malcolms clutches Of course Im a hooker. Who else would put up with your mental filth? Now let go of me so I can go out and turn some tricks!!

 Malcolm leans in closer to whisper in Yolandas ear Do you think any man out there wants your dirty snatch on his cock? Im the only bastard sick enough to get a hard-on thinking about your filthy ass. Malcolm picks up Yolanda and pins her to the wall, next to the window overlooking 23rd st. Those people out there think of you as a freakshow, they cant know you. Malcolm thrusts his hips between her thighs Do you feel that?

Yolanda struggles.

Thats my love for you. Im gonna give it to you right here! On top of twenty-third street! Im gonna show you theres only one crazy muthafucker got the hots for you. Malcolm backs two paces away. He shoves his hand down his pants & begins fondling his meat You wanna see this? Do you wanna see what those little bitches get? Do you wanna feel it up inside?

Yolanda whispers yes.  while her eyes get that horny glazed over quality that one often finds in XXX film stars. The lock on the hotel/apartment room door is keyed & a skinny little black haired girl with a vinyl handbag marches in.

O.K.! Shows over, Toots!! Time to pay up and get your ass back on the L.I.R.R.!!    

That wasnt an hour! Yolanda splurts, as every muscle in her body twitches to the interuptus.

By my watch that was an hour. If you want additional time maybe I can schedule some in for next week. How would that work for you? smiles the sunglassed raven.

Every week it seems that you give me less and less time with him. Yolanda, a.k.a. Mrs. Terrance Alphonse (Wife of reputable Long Island lawyer Mr. Terrance Hey, Terry-Do-Me-A-Favor Alphonse), considers backhanding this little bitch across the room but only for a second. This is a crime! The way you act when Malcolms with me. Now pulling on stockings and straightening her dress Wadda you? Jealous? Maybe he would like to slip it, on a permanent basis, to a more vivacious and experienced woman? You little, flat-chested, bra...

Lisas, (re:the ravens), hand pulls a .38 out of the black, vinyl handbag and aims between Yolands eyebrows Ya know, I think Im gonna have to put you on restriction, you flabby-assed slut! & if you arent outta here by the time I turn around there will be another hole in your body that wont feel dick tonight. Lisa steps back, pulls the gun to her chest.

I think she means it. You had better leave. She doesnt usually pull the gun out. suggests Malcolm, reclined on the stained twin mattress.

Well, will you at least call me next week?

GET OUTTA HERE NOW!!

Too late. Lisa spins. Two shots & loses another room deposit.

 

 

(Later that night traveling south on 84)

Now how the hell are we supposed to make enough to leave this fuckin country, if you keep blowing the heads offa alla my tricks? Can you answer that?

 

 Ya know Im sensitive about my breasts! I had bigger, more firm titsthan that cows before the operation. How was I supposed to know those implants would leak? But we showed those fuckin quacks, didnt we, Mally?

 

(February 15th 11:55pm. Tulsa General Hospital)

I dont know why anyone would blow up a hospital. Fer Gods sake, people come in here because their sick. What kind of animal would do this? What kind of uncaring atrocity of Satan have we loosed upon this planet? Im in charge of building maintenance. I will tell you what, there were no bombs in the basement when I locked the doors to the stairwells at 9:00 p.m. Whoever did this, I hope Jesus will watch over their ass because their eternal soul will be damned to the darkest fiery pit that has ever been invented in HELL. Oh, Jesus, is that a little girl? Oh my God! Im sorry, officer, when I see some maniac blowing up small children & women, I swear to God!! I swear to God, it just makes me wanna unleash all the powers of my heavenly father onto this land of degenerates & fucking anti-Christian freaks. I will betcha, anything you like, officer, that this was more than likely some faggot who had a bad childhood, so he has always hated his mother. Wadda you think?

Well now... Mr. Edwin? Im just trying to figure out how some local anti-Christian faggot

would have access to your workroom in the sub-basement. Does anyone else have a key to that room...Mr. Edwin?

Well of course they do! I dont work here twenty-four hours a day! Ive got a wife & kids & a house!! Are you trying to tell me you think I did this? MAY THE LORD STRIKE ME DEAD IF I HAD ANYTHING TO DO WITH THIS!! I am a God-fearin law-abidin citizen of these United States of America and I will be damned if this aint the trial & tribulation to beat all. How can you sit there, in your right mind, and question me like some common piece of trash? How?

Aint I paid my dues young man? Look at me! Im Seventy-Six years old! And how the hell do you know it was someone from around these parts anyway?! How do you know it wasnt one of them Iraqi terrorists or a Satanist from one of those Rock-&-Roll clubs in the city? I dont know who you are Mr., but I know the folks around here would never even consider pulling a stunt like this. Hell, were the most upstanding folks in the country! Money magazine said so!

Now, Mr. Edwin, nobody is accusing you or anyone else of anything, but we have found  evidence that you have recently installed a new Oxy-Flow system 23 digital network regulator.       Is this correct, Mr. Edwin?

Hey! What are you trying to say?

Isnt it also true, Mr. Edwin, that in the installation of this device you intentionally disengaged the manufacturers safety flow valve cutoff device?

Hey, Mister, the quantity of oxygen used in this environment requires that I disengage that safety feature. I can show you a list of specs if that would help to bring you up to speed on the workings of this hospital, where I have been employed since 1984!

Where were you working before this, Mr. Edwin?

What does that have to do with...What are you trying to get at, young fella?

Werent you working another place that mysteriously blew up?

That was an oil rig! Those things go up all the time! You cant blame me for that!

Well, be that as it may, I think that its only fair that I advise you of your rights at this time.

Mr. Edwin you have the right to remain silent. If you choose to give up this right...

Im not taking this! Youll hear from my lawyer!

 Mr. Edwin starts away from the detective towards his pick-up truck parked in the parking lot.

Mr. Edwin, you are going to have to come downtown and answer some questions.

Mr. Edwin enters his truck and starts the motor. The window is rolled down. Mr. Edwin spits.

Im an honest man and you cops arent going to blame me for this!!

Detective Malcolm Edwards shoots Mr. Edwin at point blank range in the forehead.

We all have to blame someone, Mr Edwin.

 

 

 

 

 

Thee Aversion to Tourista Society

 

This is not meant to be... cant come off this way... yeah, thats what it means! Theres that guy again walking by as though hes a tourist out on a leisure holiday to look down tank tops The bald guy over there has been flashing him the eagle eye as if he knew something about this characters daily schedule... but theyre just common run-of-the-mill street characters Nothing too WOOPEE! About that. Theres the blonde in the white pants with the sunglasses... wow! Never seen one of those before... [yawn]... the only way this is going to work, we tell ourselves, is if we embellish a little more on the duller edges... O.K. the tourist. What do we know about him? Not much really, just some older guy, grey hair cut short casual sports wear [i.e. shorts & short sleeve button down {collared & colored Hawaiian style}] pink skin deteriorating muscle texture... NADA...  A non-descriptionist... much as much of the general Populus of present day... they stay that way so they will be protected from magic drive-by bullets which veer off course, of course, toward whoever wears the loud clothes screaming from the corner full on red light middle of the day... thats why people love their cars... they get to hide inside so noone, or @ least not as many will spy on them as they live their normal everyday boring fuck machine of life.

 im fairly certain i dont have to tell you im not really that keen on the sunshine world... the way the ozones going... clusterfuck traffic... stocks & bonds... may as well be battery acid enemas as much as it intersects with my life... i find it extremely difficult to function in sunlight which makes my present situation an increment more tenuous... see, i fell in love with this scientist whose existence deals in the realm of the solar hours of the day... definitely not what makes me tick... so i wake up early in the morning 8, 9, 10, somewhere around there, & my whole day is shot.... i want to wake up @ three- brush my teeth- have some coffee, smoke a smoke & then start the day around five or six, closer to sundown... when the sun isnt so hot... most of the sun junkies are headed back towards the ranch or to the kids soccer gang fights... but i guess i would rather have love than be just another lonely monkey so here i am... thank you, NYC for producing another nocturnalis... self destruct... self destruct...        

 

 

 

OVERPOPULATION

 

 

 

impact~/////~push up~/////~swarm

black~/////~concrete~/////~green

dusk~/////~dragonfly~/////~baby

public~/////~voyeur~/////~scream

beach~/////~mute~/////`laughing

swimmer~/////~contact~/////~wade

Walk Away

 

@ a public beach dusk w/ concrete

pushing up a black dragonfly swimmer

baby scream mute

laughing voyeur wade

on benches of green contact

its an impact

you push up from the swarm

you walk away

 

 

TEARS or NONE

 

 

I write to you because

when you smile

when you cry

when you laugh

when you shine

you make me

REMEMBER?

Now am i real

i am

with memory

whether

all emotions erupt or crawl

to feel skin OR concept

YOUR tears are daggers

&

soft light

i could only

hope

to

hold

for increments of seconds

 

 

 

our travels through

this gauze

are not

NOW

or FOREVER

  ever

over

ending

or

forgotten

REMEMBER?